No Rest for the Wicked
by journalxxx
Summary: "He's actually quite a sweet boy when you peel away the ego."
1. Chapter 1

As much as Maxwell loathed having to share camp and living space with almost a dozen of other people, he had to admit that the new arrangement imposed by Charlie's reign made survival considerably easier, and a few selected activities more enjoyable too. The night, in particular, was much less stressful and grating on everyone's nerves compared to when he was travelling only with Wilson.

The skittish scientist needed a generous amount of undisturbed sleep every night, and his feeble nerves would suffer greatly if the circumstances forced him to forego the rest. Maxwell, on the other hand, had retained some peculiar demonic traits even after being released from the Shadows' control, and as a result he did not need any sleep at all, ever. This meant that he spent every night simply tending to the fire, experimenting with the Shadow Manipulator, checking the extent of his remaining powers with the Codex, and generally dealing with whatever task was quiet enough not to rouse his sleeping companion. This meant, in short, utter boredom for at least six hours per day, unless some of Charlie's beasts decided to shake up the routine.

His nocturnal habits had changed since they had joined the group. In particular, he had taken to spend a great deal of time after dusk in Wickerbottom's company, whose insomnia made her almost as immune to sleep as Maxwell himself. Surprisingly, he had found that he didn't mind said company at all, and he often openly enjoyed it.

Wickerbottom was probably the only member of the group Maxwell would deem 'sane'. She was a well-spoken, extraordinarily cultured and resourceful old lady, truly a woman from better days, armed with sensible advice and a steady head. Even though every survivor had been granted some basic knowledge of magic to allow them to overcome the harshness of the world they had been thrown into, Wickerbottom had imprinted her very unique mark on her magic skills, pouring them into her precious books and becoming an invaluable asset for the group's continued existence. Maxwell was genuinely impressed by her prowess with the arcane arts, and had even provided a few tips to aid her handle what little dark magic she had managed to bend to her will. He had, however, categorically refused to lend her the Codex, despite her clear interest and unabashed insistence, and this had caused some friction in their earlier relationship. However, she had ultimately taken the hint and stopped pestering him about the topic, and since then Maxwell's opinion of the aged librarian had only improved.

"Are you sure you don't want any tea, Maxwell?"

"I'm quite all right, thank you."

At night, she was exactly the kind of company Maxwell would have asked for. She spent most of her time reorganizing her notes, writing, editing, manually binding and enchanting her own books, in almost perfect and industrious silence. Her focus matched Maxwell's own for his own studies, and her love for tea was the perfect excuse for a well-deserved break. She was not, however, averse to the occasional small talk, another thing that had been sorely missing from Maxwell and Wilson's coexistence, since every little exchange between the two men inexplicably turned into a cacophony of jabs and not-so-thinly-veiled insults.

"Your joints seem to be troubling you more than usual today." Maxwell commented, watching her limp slightly towards her chair, a filled cup of berry leaf tea in her hands. "I'd advise some mandrake tea, it should be more beneficial than that."

"Oh, don't worry. There's no need to waste our last mandrake for some fleeting weather pains. I've never been in a world with so few mandrakes, not even half a dozen! We'd better save them for emergencies."

"Very true." Maxwell conceded with a small smile. In fact, it was not an accident that Wickerbottom's expectations in terms of mandrake populace were a bit askew. Maxwell had always made sure to place a good amount of extras in the worlds she visited, as a compensation for her old age and not brilliant physical capabilities. After all, the sole purpose of the King was to provide better entertainment for the Shadows, and captives who were obliterated too quickly were always a bit of a disappointment. The challenge had to be tailored to each participant's possibilities, their demise painful and slow enough to appeal to Their twisted taste.

"Since you're considerate enough to inquire about my wellbeing, I hope you won't mind me doing the same." She took a sip from the steaming cup, the crackling fire projecting brief flashes on her glasses. "What ails you, dear boy?"

"What ails me?" Maxwell echoed, frowning and repressing a familiar pang of irritation at Wickerbottom's unwarranted endearings. He was sure she realized that, despite appearances, Maxwell couldn't be younger than herself, considering the altered flow of time of the Constant, and yet she wouldn't stop addressing him in the same way she would talk to Webber. He tolerated that annoying habit just by virtue of the fact that Wickerbottom was basically the only person in the camp of a fitting mental age and disposition for actual conversation. "Nothing. I'm in perfectly good health."

"I can see that, but I didn't mean physically. I couldn't help but notice that you've been in a particularly bad mood as of late. Brooding, even."

"Really? I can't say I've noticed, myself. Although I'm not sure anyone of us can be expected to be always at the top of his game, considering our unfortunate circumstances."

"Oh, nonsense." She waved at him dismissively. Her tone was light and conversational, but her eyes were strangely keen and inquisitory. "If there's someone who's always dapper despite the circumstances, that's you. Sometimes rather inappropriately, I might add. I'm not surprised to find Wolfgang sulking in front of the fire every other day, but it's much rarer to see you genuinely troubled by any happenstance."

"Brooding, troubled!" Maxwell smirked, just a hint of sarcasm tinging his voice. "I fear you may be reading too much into this. Might I ask about the reason for such deep concern?"

"The benefit of the group, for one." She answered genially. "You're the only other member of the team that can use my books, and with much lighter drawbacks than myself, and your shadow puppets greatly ease the daily gathering and foraging tasks. These skills of yours are extremely valuable for our survival, and they rely entirely on your sanity. Usually your mental balance is almost unshakable, but if something were to compromise it, we would all suffer from the loss of your powers."

"Mark my words, I don't believe anyone has ever acknowledged my undeniable contributions to our cause as clearly and honestly as you just have. Everyone seems to subscribe to the idea that I'm little more than gloomy dead weight." He bowed his head slightly in appreciation. "Your concern is legitimate, but unnecessary. The world I see retains its most vibrant colors and there are no abhorrent creatures scampering at the edge of my vision. I'm perfectly fine."

"That's very good to know. Nonetheless, I hope you aren't letting unaddressed issues fester in your own head. It never pays off in the long run."

"Indeed. But I assure you there's no need for you to concern yourself."

"I see." Wickerbottom lowered her gaze on her own book and apparently resumed her reading. So did Maxwell, although he didn't believe for one moment that the old lady's curiosity could be contained so easily. The woman could be unbelievably stubborn, as their disagreement about the Codex had proved, and her insistent prodding was a sign of strong interest. Obviously, Maxwell had no intention of discussing his current thoughts with anyone, and if she was planning on pulling them out of him with deceivingly polite words, she should have thought better than picking on the most experienced trickster in the whole- "Coincidentally, Wilson has been in an exceptionally foul mood too, lately."

Oh, confound the man.

"...Has he now?" Maxwell poured as much boredom and indifference in his tone as he could muster, without raising his eyes from the Codex. Sly move, sly and cheap.

"He has. He almost drove young Webber to tears yesterday with an untimely rant against the closest spider nest. He apologized profusely afterwards, but it's still unpleasant to see such a kind young man getting so worked up."

"That's unfortunate, although not unexpected. The man's grasp on his own sanity is tenuous at best. Maybe your concern would be better directed at him."

"And that's not even mentioning last week's brawl between the two of you." She continued, unperturbed. "I honestly cannot imagine what may have spurred him to react so vehemently."

"Higgsbury isn't quite as good-tempered as everyone makes him to be. Sometimes his outbursts blow out of proportion for the most trivial matters. Besides, we argue so often and for so many trifling reasons that I'm often tempted to slap that fuzzy face of his too. I just have better impulse control."

"...To be fair, talking with you can really test on one's patience at times." After a moment, Wickerbottom shook her head with a sigh. "You know, I haven't quite grasped exactly how the relationship between the two of you is."

"What is there to grasp?" Maxwell's eyes went wide in genuine confusion. "I brought him here, just like I did with everyone else, and he hates me for it. I'd say it's pretty obvious, considering how vocal he is about his disapproval of my... well, everything."

"And yet, you were travelling together when our groups joined, and he vouched rather strongly for your inclusion in our ranks, even though most of us were... distrustful of you, to put it mildly."

"We met by chance and simply stuck together for convenience. As for the latter behavior... it seems to be inspired by some quaint tenets of human solidarity and compassion. I suspect that if I were to perish for lack of external help, it wouldn't sit right with his overzealous conscience. The fact that he still hasn't rejected such absurd principles in lieu of sheer survival instinct might just be my greatest failure as former King."

"And despite your claims, you work very well together. Your coordination during fights is impressive, if I say so myself, and I've noticed you primarily consult each other first when you stumble on a problem or need something done. I must say that it doesn't really seem the kind of behavior two people at each other's throats would adopt."

"We have survived many hound incursions and accidents together. By now I've learnt how he moves, how he thinks and how he reacts in a panic, and I guess he has done the same. It's only natural to rely on a well-tried synergy when in a pinch, it's a habit born of necessity." Maxwell rested the book face-down on his own chest, crossing his arms and glaring at the nosy librarian from his makeshift straw cot. This whole questioning session was getting really out of hand. "As you just pointed out, I don't have a stellar reputation in the camp, so I prefer bothering the person who is the least likely to stab me in the back, if anything because if he had wanted to, he'd have already done it long ago. And Higgsbury himself isn't exactly a social butterfly. I doubt he's been around this many people at once since way before he arrived in the Constant, hence his unwillingness to interact with strangers, if at all possible. I hope this satisfies your keen curiosity."

"Quite. Thank you for your rich insight." She replied with a strangely satisfied smile. It reminded Maxwell of an old school teacher, encouraging the promising reasoning of a young student. "I'm glad to hear there is indeed remarkable trust and even respect between the two of you."

"I- what?" Maxwell gaped at her in dismay. "Did you not hear a single word I just said?"

"Please Maxwell, do not insult my intelligence. Belittling him and slipping gratuitous insults about him in every other sentence to ostensibly negate any sort of appreciation may fool a teenager, or even yourself, but it is frankly unseemly and pointless among reasonable adults. Especially when your actions say otherwise so clearly."

"What I do find frankly unseemly is your insistent and unsolicited meddling in other people's business." Maxwell snappily countered, maybe a tad more vehemently than the circumstances could justify. "I did not know you for the kind of person who'd dwell on idle gossip, and honestly I'm rather disappointed."

"Oh trust me, I wouldn't have touched this topic, were I not firmly convinced that this is everyone's business and not just yours." She paused. "Mutual trust and respect are paramount to our survival, and I can only wish they were widely shared among the group. However, the frequent and apparently groundless squabbles between you and Wilson are starting to affect other people too, and that just won't do. There are far too many enemies and dangers on the outside to worry about, we can't afford to have our defenses crumble from the inside."

"So, meddling for the sake of the group, eh? A much nobler intent, I'm sure." Maxwell sneered. "I'm deeply sorry that we can't all just get along and get over our disagreements overnight, unless one of your books can work that sort of magic."

"I don't have such a convenient spell at hand, unfortunately. But sometimes a good talk is all we need to figure out the solution to a problem."

"How kind of you to offer your assistance." Maxwell replied dryly.

"Maxwell. Do you really think it so demeaning that I may be simply concerned about you?"

...That was an unexpected approach. She smiled, softly, and continued. "I've grown to enjoy your company quite a bit, dear. I'm growing slightly worried about the atmosphere setting around you, and I would hate to see you getting hurt because of it."

"Hurt?" Maxwell scoffed. "I may be past my prime, but if you think that a scrawny scientist could pose a real threat to my safety-"

"Again, I didn't mean physically."

Weirder and weirder. The conversation had taken a turn Maxwell wasn't sure he could still read. There was the nosy, all-knowing pragmatism so typical of the elderly in her demeanour, and so profoundly irritating. There was also what appeared to be genuine concern, though, and beneath that, even some semblance of understanding awareness for the ghost of a feeling Maxwell himself would deny till death. There wasn't a single good reason for him to put up with her any longer, and yet... And yet. If there was one person in the Constant who could be willing and decent enough to lend him a sympathetic ear without being tempted to use it against him or mock him afterwards, it was probably Wickerbottom. And as much as Maxwell loathed to admit it, he could use blowing off some steam about the unsufferable scientist. And who knew? Maybe Wickerbottom would actually be able to slap some sense into the man and convince him to keep his distance, making the whole ordeal on Maxwell's side much easier to handle.

He sighed wearily, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"...To be honest, he's the wild card in this mess, not me. I make no mystery of my past motives and actions, nor do I expect them to be overlooked or forgiven. It's just the sort of person I am. I am untrustworthy, myself, because I distrust all of you people, as we all have perfectly good reasons to wish ill upon each other. It's a perfectly fair attitude, if you ask me. But Higgsbury..." Maxwell paused, frowning at the fire and picking his words carefully. "He doesn't get it. Or doesn't want to get it, I genuinely can't tell. He has... expectations. God knows what I ever did to give him such a misplaced impression, but I think he expects me to change. To magically become a respectable and honorable fellow, or to repent, or to apologize, or to feel guilty, or something along those lines. And when I don't, he gets unreasonably affronted and bewildered, over and over again. It's baffling, really. He should know better by now. He should have known better from the very beginning."

"I don't think it's especially unreasonable of him to expect a modicum of compunction from you about everything that's happened. You speak as if you firmly believe that everyone here couldn't wish for anything better than choking you with a pillow-"

"That would be a much more merciful death than anyone would think of inflicting on me. Especially the robot."

"-But you'd be surprised how much they would be willing to forgive, with the right approach."

"With all due respect, I think deliberate abduction and confinement in a supernatural dimension riddled with murderous monsters and unspeakable horrors brings things way past the stage of civil, verbal reconciliation. A mere apology wouldn't really cut it."

"Well. That may be the case for some of us, but you shouldn't be too quick with your assumptions. I, for one, would appreciate hearing one."

"...I see Higgsbury isn't the only one to harbor misguided expectations about me." Maxwell didn't speak immediately. When he did, there was a steelier edge to his voice and eyes. "If you think there's even a tiny smudge of regret in my mind for bringing any of you lot in here, you couldn't be further from the truth. I simply gave everyone what they genuinely wanted, and let their selfish and carefree disregard of the possible consequences do the rest. If you think my hand was somewhat forced by Others in my task, you're equally wrong. I didn't freely choose the role of King nor its blood-thirsty duties, but that didn't prevent me from enjoying them, and enjoy them I did. Thoroughly."

"Heavens, Maxwell! You really are your own worst enemy, sometimes." Wickerbottom shook her head. "No wonder Wilson often loses his temper, if this is the sort of speeches you give him."

"Do you really want to know what last week's argument was about?" Maxwell's lip curved into a smile, a languidly malicious smile. She didn't reply, but he continued anyway. "He overheard a private conversation between Wendy and myself, and he came to confront me about it. He was so very outraged to learn that she is my niece, you see."

It was with no little satisfaction that Maxwell saw the stoic lady's composure visibly shake, even for few seconds. Her lips parted in genuine surprise, shocked and then troubled and then grave expressions shifting on her visage. It was almost laughable, how everyone seemed to make such a big deal of this. Wilson had approached him with the most infuriated scowl, the very picture of rightful indignation, he had grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket - his only good suit, damn the brute - and had shoved him against a wall, roaring about familial ties and basic human decency and _how could you do this to your own kin_ and such nonsense. Wolfgang had had to physically pick the tiny man up and separate him from Maxwell before someone's fist could accidentally smash someone else's nose. Maxwell had heartily blessed the strongman's scarce proficiency with the English language then, probably the only reason why he hadn't sided with the rambling scientist.

"We had already had a brief 'discussion' when he met Webber and Wendy. Apparently kidnapping children wasn't within the arbitrary range of atrocities he thought me capable of committing." Maxwell continued. "Although, again, I couldn't say why. Naive toddlers or gullible legal citizens are just the same to me. Obtaining souls for the Constant was my objective, and a soul is a soul, no matter the age. I told him as much, and I thought he had grasped the idea, albeit ruefully. Then he finds out that Wendy and I are related, and we're back where we started. Again with the shock, the outrage, the overblown reaction. You asked me what the source of our constant bickering is, and here's the answer: he's a fool, plain and simple. He persists in looking for traces of a certain type of morality that simply isn't there. He's just setting himself up for disappointment."

Wickerbottom's gaze was so piercing that Maxwell wondered if her glasses were going to crack. Her next words were not the stern accusations or recriminations Maxwell was expecting.

"...Did you know?"

"Excuse me?"

"I remember the night we introduced ourselves. You asked her to repeat her full name. You looked... shocked. Did you know she was your niece?"

He did not. Even though Maxwell loved feigning an air of near-omniscience about his captives' lives and times, his actual knowledge was far more limited. He had not been aware of the familial ties between Wendy and himself until he met her personally in the Constant: the Shadows had provided him with a conveniently incomplete name, a duly censored overview of her life and needs and wishes, and a subconscious disinterest about investigating the matter any further. No doubt They had found the gratuitous trickery towards both of them supremely entertaining. And, if he was perfectly honest, Maxwell was more irked about being treated once again like a plaything rather than about the whole family business. Wendy was a perfect stranger to him, their precious 'kinship bond' being nothing more of an abstract concept devoid of any emotional significance. Amusingly enough, Wendy herself seemed to share his outlook on the matter. Smart girl, that one.

"You are quite an observant sort." He deadpanned. "Would you believe me if I said it wouldn't have mattered in the slightest?"

"I guess I would." She shook her head. "I take that you didn't tell Wilson as much."

"Why would I? It's none of his business. If she holds no special grudge against me about it, and she doesn't, he certainly doesn't have the right to."

"So you'd rather let him believe that your conduct has been even more reproachable than it actually was, rather than admitting a mistake?"

"It was not a mistake! I literally couldn't care less!" Maxwell burst out. "I wouldn't have spared her even if I had known, not on the grounds of some feeble connection to an estranged relative I can barely remember. _I don't care_."

"You do care about his disappointment though."

There was no good reply to that statement. Maxwell sulked at the fire.

"...It's an inconvenience. Anything that draws attention to my actions as King brings me one step closer to being lynched. Although I must confess that a part of me is curious to see him finally lose that inane pretense of morality of his. I do wonder what it would take to drive him to the deep end..."

In truth, he already knew. He had already seen a truly unforgiving, unmistakably murderous glint in Wilson's eyes, exactly once, when they had personally met for the first time. When Wilson had emerged from the all-encompassing darkness surrounding the throne, half-starved, exhausted, scared, limping and sore, and he had seen Maxwell. He had attacked immediately, even before Maxwell could greet or taunt him, he had hoisted his spear and charged forwards, roaring with unthinking rage and desperation. When the defensive spells activated, they destroyed both his weapon and his resolve. As he lay on the ground after the magic rebound, he finally seemed to fully process the sight before him. The throne, the restraints binding Maxwell's limbs, his real appearance, the maddening music from the gramophone.

His eyes had changed since then. Anger, hostility, distrust, annoyance, contempt had remained, for sure, but something else had changed. He hadn't looked murderous when he had slid the key to the throne in place, and the very last thing Maxwell could remember seeing, as his body crumbled to dust, was the look of genuine shock on Wilson's face. Even when they had met in the Constant and Wilson had lunged towards Maxwell headfirst, knocking and holding him to the ground easily, being in better shape and much, much angrier, his violent outburst had been exceptionally short-lived. He had wrestled with his own morality much more viciously than with his former captor, and he had ultimately surrendered to both. Maxwell had called him weak and pathetic, and would dearly like to still feel that way. It was beyond unfortunate that Wilson had proved to be such a reliable and capable partner, morphing Maxwell's disdain in- a morbid sort of interest, he supposed.

"I don't see that happening any time soon." Wickerbottom interrupted what Maxwell realized had been a rather lenghty pause. She was still studying him with a small, knowing smile. "You have both a talent and a passion for consistently being on your most unpleasant and arrogant behavior. It may come as a surprise to you, but it isn't hard to see that there's a bit more to your character than just that. I don't doubt Wilson has noticed it too."

Maxwell shook his head in annoyance, finally picking back his book. Fools, the both of them. "I appreciate your interest, but we're just talking in circles at this point. We both have more productive ways of employing our time, I'd say."

"You seem to rely a great deal on that unique book of yours." Wickerbottom took one last sip from her cup and adjusted her glasses, her gaze falling on the dark tome. "Do you think it can guide you out of this tricky situation too?"

"Maybe." Maxwell instictively shut the volume and pocketed it. He could never stomach other people looking too insistently at his most important possession and primary self-defense weapon. "If I can garner any insight as to how we can leave this wretched place... Well, that would work much better than any flowery apology, wouldn't it?"

Wickerbottom hummed and stood up from her chair with slow, measured movements, a hand pressed against her sore hip. She straightened a couple of wrinkles on her clothes, not nearly as many as Maxwell could count on her visage. He couldn't remember exactly how long ago he had lured her into the Constant, but it was quite a while. All of a sudden, it seemed almost unbelievable that that frail creature could have managed to survive for so long, completely alone.

"I can appreciate your reasoning, and I certainly won't discourage anyone from drawing knowledge from the enlightenment of the written word. But not even I can pretend that all the answers we need might be found in books. And sometimes, by focussing too closely on the pages, we may miss a fundamental and unexpected truth that's just staring us straight in the face."

"Wise words, although I wish someone else was here to hear them. No one will ever believe me when I'll tell them that you're lecturing me for reading too much."

"Please, do not take it as a reprimand. I merely speak from experience, as I'm sure you know."

The wrinkles bent and multiplied armonically, as a small, gentle smile graced her features. It reminded him of a similar, though much younger smile he was familiar with, printed on an old, ruined photo Wickerbottom used to keep on her bedside table, carefully framed and deeply treasured, a worn-out memento tinged with nostalgia and regret. Maxwell stood up as well, obligingly taking the empty cup from her hand. He found he could not quite meet her eyes as he spoke, his tone just a bit more somber.

"For what it's worth, of all the diverse circumstances and necessities that brought dissatisfied souls to my attention, yours has always struck me as the most... understandable."

"I'm glad to hear that. In that case, I'm sure there's still hope of salvation for the both of us." She nodded and paused, glancing back towards the tents. "You know, I think I may be able to catch a few hours of sleep before dawn. Goodnight, Maxwell. A pleasure talking with you, as always."

"A goodnight to you, Ms. Wickerbottom."

He followed her with his gaze as she made her way towards her cot, Wolfgang's loud snores finally abated enough to provide some respite to their ears. His eyes lingered on Wilson's tent, just for a moment. He then sat back on the vacant chair, drew the Codex from his pocket, and delved once again into his study.


	2. Chapter 2

"Wilson, do you have a moment?"

Wilson's heart sank in his chest, even before seeing Wickerbottom's drawn face peek into his tent. He had learnt to recognise the tone that required his presence because someone had been more or less mauled by something. Wilson had gone to great lengths to teach all the other survivors what little useful knowledge and technique his education and admittedly very limited practice in the medical field had granted him (because it was only a matter of time before he'd be the one in need of assistance, he knew that), but he was still the first person everyone would address when such problems arised. He may not have the tools or ability to perform miraculous life-saving procedures, but in a world without painkillers a little extra speed and skill could spare everyone unnecessary stress even for the most trivial injuries. He put down the broken compass he was trying to repair and immediately reached for the small emergency bag he had always ready.

"What happened?"

"I'm not quite sure. Webber just came running to warn us that... well, he was rather distressed and I couldn't grasp the whole story, but there must have been an accident near the spiders' nests. Maxwell appears to be injured and Wolfgang is bringing him back to the camp as we speak."

"Maxwell? What on Earth was he doing there?" Wilson asked, more than just a little surprised. Maxwell hardly ever left the camp, and he especially avoided going anywhere near any sort of monster den or pond or beehive, with caution that bordered on cowardice.

"I was planning to ask Webber later, once he has calmed down. I've settled him in his tent and there's already some water boiling in the furnace. Shall we go and meet the others halfway?"

"Yes, of course- oh, thank you." Wilson stepped out of the tent and Wickerbottom offered him an umbrella. She was already standing under her own, and Wilson just noticed it had started to rain. He must have tuned out the noise while he was working. He had gotten used at tuning out things while he was working, especially Maxwell's frequent complains about the quality or purpose of said work. Speaking of the man, he'd better have some really brilliant explanation for going out on his own without warning anyone. Or- well, he must have warned at least Webber or Wolfgang or someone else, but- not Wilson, which used to be the only 'anyone' around before- oh, never mind. He'd better have a good explanation, and he'd better be fit enough to give it personally.

Wolfgang was already visible from the perimeter of the base, strutting towards it with a fierce step, Wendy and Abigail in tow and Maxwell inelegantly balanced on his shoulders like a sack of potatoes. That didn't bode well. Wilson and Wickerbottom hurried towards the group, calling them as they got within ear's reach. It was with unexpected relief that Wilson saw Maxwell's head turn toward the source of the voices, and an arm awkwardly waving towards them.

"For the love of God, tell this oaf to put me down!" He barked, his voice somewhat rough. " _I can walk_."

"He's been saying that all the time, but I doubt it's true. He's losing quite a bit of blood." Wendy replied candidly. Wilson couldn't help but shiver slightly. That little girl could be more terrifying with a single innocent remark than Maxwell had ever proved to be with all his demonic magic and trickery. They were related all right, and she seemed to have inhereted all her uncle's spookiness and some more.

"Wolfgang is faster than limping frail man! Do not worry, camp is close!" Wolfgang waved at Wilson and stopped in front of him, pointing at his unhappy burden. "I bring him to his tent, yes?"

"Yes, but wait a moment." Wilson ignored Maxwell's inane grumbling and walked around the helpful mountain of a man. He quickly checked Maxwell's pulse and breathing, finding them steady enough. There was a visible bloodstain on his side, that had also spread to the shirt covering Wolfgang's back. He couldn't see the wound, as it was covered by a rough square of silk, completely soaked in redness and kept in place by a thin rope tied around the man's waist. Maybe not the most comfortable solution, but Maxwell seemed well enough to withstand two more minutes of bumpy jogging without bleeding out. "All right, let's go."

"Wait! Damn you all- oh, thank you." It was Wickerbottom that disrupted Maxwell's tirade, once again offering her services against the bad weather and holding her own umbrella above him. The bizarre group resumed its stride towards the base.

"Is anyone else hurt? Wolfgang?" Wilson inquired.

"No, no! All I need is something to fill my mighty belly."

"I'm sure there are some leftover meatballs in the ice box."

While Wolfgang unloaded his troublesome baggage, Wilson retrieved the steaming bucket from the furnace, paying close attention that no raindrops fell in it. Wickerbottom followed him into the tent, observing carefully as Wilson opened his bag and prepared the few tools he had at his disposal before starting to peel the blood-soaked silk and clothes from the wound. Maxwell was already groaning in discomfort; pain tolerance had never been his strongest suit. At first glance, the two gashes running along Maxwell's side towards his navel didn't look terrible. Before doing anything else, Wilson carefully washed his hands with the smelly soap he had fashioned out of monster fat and ash. The water was still a bit too hot, almost to the point of burning him as Wickerbottom poured some from the bucket on his hands, but he didn't complain. Surely Maxwell was going to do it enough for the both of them.

"Ow! Watch it, will you?"

"I can't fix it by just looking at it. And I'm sure it doesn't hurt that much either, considering how lively you are."

"You'd be sore too if that brute had forced you to lie on it while he jolted you around on his back for fifteen minutes. I swear he just wanted to use me as a raincoat-"

"You can thank him for saving your life later." Wilson cut him off curtly. "Now kindly be quiet."

The cuts were indeed less worrying than all the blood suggested. They only got as deep as the muscle layer, leaving the peritoneum intact all the way through. A considerable luck, considering that Maxwell's skinny build didn't offer much in terms of protection of inner organs. Wickerbottom adjusted her glasses and cleared her throat, interrupting their squabble.

"Is there anything I can do to help, dear?"

"Uhm... I think I can handle this on my own, it isn't as bad as it looks." Wilson scratched his chin on his shoulder. His chin always itched when his hands were busy, God knew why. "Could you throw a blanket over him and fetch a warm thermal stone, if you don't mind?" He added, chiding himself for not realizing sooner how thoroughly soaked Maxwell was.

"Of course. I'll be back in a minute."

Wickerbottom carefully tucked the beefalo fleece around him, leaving only the injured area uncovered. Maxwell strangely didn't object. When she left, Wilson finally got to work, dipping a piece of cloth in the water and starting to clean the slashes.

"Ow! It's hot!"

"Oh, drop it. It's just warm now, and you've been through much worse than this."

"Has anyone ever told you that your bedside manners are downright abysmal?"

"Yes, you. Anyway, care to explain what you were doing by the spiders' nests?"

"Is this really the right time for that?" Maxwell hissed as Wilson applied the healing salve along the edges of the wounds, trying to delicately smear some along the inner sides too.

"I don't know, you seem pretty eager to run your mouth for someone who-"

"Maxwell! We're so sorry!" Wilson almost dropped the whole bowl on the wound as a loud, high-pitched voice suddenly burst out behind him. He turned to see Wickerbottom, Webber and Wendy standing on the threshold of the tent. He suddenly felt unpleasantly under the spotlight. He never liked having an audience while he was working.

"My apologies, Wilson, they rushed in before I could stop them." Wickerbottom said while she slid the hot, glowing orb under Maxwell's blanket. Wilson instictively worried about the children having a full view of the bloody wound, but then he remembered that those specific kids had more experience with gruesome injuries, assorted mutilations and horrifying deaths than many adults living out of the Constant.

"Uh, it's not a problem. Maxwell might benefit from some quiet though-"

"We-we just thought we could tell her to leave us alone, but she didn't listen..." Webber mumbled shakily, with such genuine compunction that Wilson didn't have it in him to ask him to leave. Instead, he busied himself with preparing the sewing kit.

"Let this be a lesson to you, boy. Grown-ups don't listen to kids. Both humans and spiders, apparently." Maxwell grumbled.

"Wait. She?" Wilson blinked, finally processing Webber's words. "You weren't attacked by a spider queen, were you?"

"She burst out of the nest all of a sudden!" Webber whimpered. "Her spiders were nice, but she didn't like Wendy and-"

"Oh my God." Wilson barely prevented himself from pinching the bridge of his nose, almost splattering blood all over his face. "Maxwell, what the hell were you doing near a fully developed nest? With the kids, of all people?"

"From what I understood, Maxwell spontaneously offered to accompany Webber to visit the spiders, when he expressed such wish earlier this afternoon." Wickerbottom interjected. "Wendy decided to tag along, and Wolfgang... well, I think he sensed he might be of help in case something went wrong."

In other words, Wilson thought, either Wolfgang didn't believe Maxwell would inconvenience himself so much just to make the kids happy, or he didn't deem him capable of keeping them safe from potential dangers. Both extremely accurate reasonings, as the events of the day had proved. Wilson squinted at the oddly silent infirm.

"How generous of you. I'm sure you had no ulterior motives for chaperoning them there."

Maxwell's glower could have melted a glacier. Luckily, Wickerbottom continued before the budding argument could escalate.

"While Webber was introducing his friends to Wendy, a spider queen spawned from the nearest nest, and she didn't take kindly to the girl's presence. Wolfgang was keeping his distance from the nest - you know how antsy he gets around monsters - and Maxwell had to step in to avoid a much more unfortunate accident. He was injured in the process."

...That was unexpected. Wilson glanced at Maxwell again, but this time the old man avoided his gaze, opting to stare intently at an irrelevant spot on the side of the tent.

"And I guess Wolfgang is the one to thank for helping any of you to make it back afterwards." Wilson sighed, gently pulling the two hems of the first cut closer. "I'm still curious to know why you decided to go there in the first place."

"...I wanted to have a look at the graves."

"The graves? What for?"

"Could we please save this conversation for when I'm not actively bleedi-" Right on cue, Wilson decided it was high time to start with the sutures, and he stabbed Maxwell with the needle without warning, maybe a tad less delicate than he could have been. Maxwell flinched sharply. "AW! YOU GODDAMN SON-"

" _Language_ , Maxwell." Wickerbottom scolded him with a stern scowl that would make a grown man squirm like an embarassed schoolboy. And indeed, Maxwell did bite back the rest of his invective, albeit ruefully. "We should stop bothering these fine gentlemen, children, if you feel reassured enough."

"We apologize for intruding. We were curious to know if death was going to claim you today, that's all." Wendy's tone was just as blank as her expression as she stared straight at Maxwell. Abigail's blurred shape flickered momentarily through the tent, effectively reinforcing the meaning of her words. "It appears that shall not be the case."

"...Better luck next time, I guess." Despite the pain, Maxwell's lips curved into a genuinely amused smile, and Wilson made a mental note to always keep those two as physically distant as possible. Somehow they managed to feed into each other's creepiness way too effortlessly for comfort. Wickerbottom sighed and gave Wilson a sympathetic glance.

"I'll be bustling around out here. If you need anything, just call, Wilson."

"Thank you, I will."

The weird group finally left, and Maxwell and Wilson both sighed in relief, in almost comical synchronicity. Neither of them particularly appreciated the coincidence. Wilson gave Maxwell just a couple of stitches' worth of time to recuperate before resuming his questioning, without lifting his eyes from his work.

"So. Why were you interested in the graves?"

"You aren't going to leave this alone, are you?"

"Nope. I mean, I can't force you to answer, but I do work more quickly with some background noise, so unless you want this undoubtedly painful procedure to take the rest of the afternoon-"

"Wow. That is some dastardly blackmail even by my standards."

"What can I say? I guess your bad habits must be starting to rub off on me." Wilson frowned, hit by a sudden, unwelcome thought, but he pushed it aside for the time being. "Well?"

"...I was looking for gems. I'm almost out of fuel and I need a new nightmare amulet to gather some more."

"Again?" Wilson scowled at him, momentarily lifting his gaze from the wound. "You made a new one just- wait, really? You went there to dig up graves, which can cause all sort of troubles and even summon wrathful ghosts, in a place riddled with spider nests, and you were planning to bring _a single child_ as your escort? What if Wolfgang hadn't come?"

"A single child with the power to pacify all the hostile creatures in the area." Maxwell corrected him, gritting his teeth both in annoyance and pain. "And I did have enough fuel for a couple of duelists, had something unexpected happened. What I did not expect was for Wendy to ask to come along, and to basically walk straight into the queen's fangs."

"What?!"

"I honestly have no idea what she was trying to do. Maybe she just wanted to stir trouble so that her flower could bloom, as it happened. I think I did see her smile when Abigail appeared. Barely."

"You have no idea? Really?" Wilson mocked. "Have you spent five minutes with her? That girl is borderline suicidal. I wouldn't be surprised if she was trying to- oh, heavens..."

"And you're an idiot if you can't see that hers is clearly an act." Maxwell took advantage of Wilson's pause to take a deep breath before continuing with a lower, somewhat wearier tone. "I'm surprised you haven't noticed yet, but there's literally nothing easier to do than _dying_ , in the Constant. Had she the tiniest real death wish in her, she'd be a pile of bones by now. But here she is, after successfully surviving on her own for... I forget, three months, maybe? Trust me, she may not be especially bothered by the thought of her own mortality, but she isn't in any hurry to rush to an early demise either."

Wilson pondered on Maxwell's admittedly sensible points as he wiped some trickling blood from the half-sewn gash. Maybe the man had indeed spent more than five minutes with her. Their respective, peculiar sensitivities seemed to be somewhat attuned, in a sort of morbid and perverse way. Saying that there was any sort of reciprocal appreciation would be a gross overstatement, but there surely seemed to be much less animosity between uncle and niece than between Maxwell and any other member of the group, save Wickerbottom, maybe.

"...Why her?" Wilson whispered, his voice just as silky as the thread he weaved in the other man's flesh. "Of all the people you could have possibly decided to kidnap, why your own niece? Why?"

"Please, don't start again with this."

"And why involving her sister in this too? Her _dead_ sister, for heaven's sake. If she asked you to reunite them, couldn't you at least give Abigail a body instead of making her a ghost that can't be revived? It's just- it just sounds like a cruel joke like this!"

"I did not _make_ that ghost, for the love of God!" Maxwell burst out, irritation flaring in his eyes. Wilson had the striking feeling that he wasn't the first one to inquire about that specific topic, and not even the second. "You lot really have some exaggerated assumptions about my former powers. I never had the ability to bring back anyone from the dead. Once a soul is lost, it's lost. There's no coming back, not even with the strongest shadow magic. Amulets, touch stones and even your creepy meat statues work by preventing the destruction of the soul, not by undoing it. That's just not possible."

"Then what's the deal with Abigail?"

"I don't know." Maxwell shrugged, and winced in pain immediately afterwards. "She was already haunting Wendy by the time I contacted her. And Wendy was aware of it, to a limited extent. She asked me for a way to communicate with her twin, and I gave her just that. I brought her in a place where their connection was stronger and perfectly perceptible to the both of them. And, if you want my honest opinion, I'm fairly sure Wendy isn't particularly displeased with how her deal turned out."

"I can't believe you. You keep talking as if you've genuinely done her a favor. You lie to her, you trap her, you endanger her... and then you save her life, and then you still-" Wilson stopped and shook his head sourly, side-eyeing Maxwell. There couldn't possibly be a brain under that oddly elongated skull of his, no. Had Wilson sawed it open, he would have found a veritable labyrinth inside, he was sure of it, one the likes of which not even Daedalus himself could have created. "...I don't understand you. I really don't."

"I know." Maxwell sighed again and closed his eyes. He suddenly looked and sounded really tired. "If that makes you feel any better, I don't understand you either."

The soothing drumming of the raindrops on the tent was the only sound breaking the silence for a good while. Maxwell seemed to have lost the will to complain vocally after his lengthy speeches, his only reactions to pain being some rare grunting and the occasional twitch on his face. Wilson proceeded smoothly once he was fully focussed on the task, with an easy steadness born from familiarity. Patching up wounds and tending to bruises was indeed a familiar situation, and not an altogether unpleasant one. If there were treatments to be administered, it meant that there was room for improvement, for the solution to the problem. Not always, but often enough. It meant that the worst possible outcome was only one of the many, and not an obligated path. The sullen silence was reassuringly familiar too, in its own way, a small, joint effort to bury the hatchet at least temporarily. Soon he was delicately prodding at the fully sutured wounds, making sure the seams held tightly and the surrounding skin wasn't tense, then he washed his hands.

"All right, I think I'm done with the stitches."

"Thank God." Maxwell muttered feebly. A sudden concern stroke Wilson. Blast it all, he had been idly wallowing in his own thoughts while his bleeding patient had gone progressively more silent and less responsive. He swiftly felt Maxwell's wrist as he shook the man's shoulder, gently but firmly.

"Hey, are you doing all right?"

"Yes." His pulse wasn't abnormal, his skin was a tad warmer than earlier too and he seemed oriented enough.

"Are you sure? Are you feeling dizzy or-"

"I'm tired, Higgsbury." Maxwell complained, tilting his head in annoyance. "Just get on with it."

No signs of shock then. Better that way. "You aren't injured anywhere else, right?" He uncovered a larger portion of Maxwell's torso, in order to clean properly the outer margins of the blood stains before bandaging the wound. As he did so, his gaze fell on an oddly bulging inner pocket of the man's jacket, and on the brief glint of the red gem lying therein. "...Oh. You did find one."

His hand veered automatically towards the pocket, curiosity getting the better of him as it always did, but suddenly Maxwell caught his wrist in an expectedly vicious grasp. His eyes weren't any kinder, either.

"Don't you dare."

"What?" Wilson blinked in confusion, before frowning in genuine offense. "What, do you think I want to steal it? When have I ever stolen anything from you?"

"You haven't, but I have." Maxwell testily retorted. "And considering your particularly petty and resentful mood lately, I'd rather not take any chances. You do nothing but complaining about the lack of resources for life-giving amulets-"

" _What_? I- I wouldn't-" It stung. Badly. For reasons and circumstances Maxwell probably wasn't even considering, yet he had managed to land a blow exactly where it hurt the most. Wilson felt blood creep to his own cheeks, and he lost track of the volume of his voice for a moment. "I would never do that! Especially after you almost died to obtain the darn thing! I'm not like _you_!"

If Wilson's outburst had shocked Maxwell, he certainly didn't show it. It did shock Wilson though. He pulled his arm from Maxwell's grip with a snappy gesture and promptly turned his attention back to the wound. He blinked at it for a couple of seconds, rage still thumping in his chest, before remembering what he was supposed to do next. He fetched the healing salve and applied some more on the stitches, for good measure, then he finally started wrapping the injury in clean bandages.

So Maxwell didn't trust him around his possessions now, apparently. The sheer nerve of the man. If there was anyone who had all the reasons to have trust issues, that was Wilson. In fact, anyone in the camp had excellent reasons not to trust Maxwell as far as they could spit, yet they all gave him another chance, and this was how he repaid them. Dragging children to their possible deaths and badmouthing his literal saviors. It made Wilson's blood boil, the fact that, despite all this, Wilson still couldn't bring himself to turn his back on him. The fact that apparently Wilson couldn't help but trusting Maxwell more than Maxwell would ever trust him, apparently. The fact that this whole issue about trust was just an euphemism for a much more inexplicable feeling.

Wilson tore the fleece off Maxwell, ignoring his displeased whine.

"Get out of those drenched clothes before you catch your death of a cold. I'll bring you a dry mat and blanket."

He left as Maxwell struggled to get his jacket off, not out of modesty but simply to let him stew in his own juices for a minute. He fetched his own mat and blanket as replacements, and hung the soaked ones near the furnace: they'd be dry by night so that Wilson could use them. When he went back to Maxwell, he had barely managed to divest his own torso. Without a word, Wilson helped him with the rest and with wearing a clean pair of trousers and a shirt. Modesty had indeed been thrown out of the window a long time ago, after too many accidents and injuries to count. Nevertheless, it was always a bit of a shock for Wilson to see Maxwell's bare body. The man was exceedingly thin, long bones jutting out at every angle and far too less flesh than his eating habits seemed to justify. It may just be his natural build, or it may be another physiological consequence of the prolonged use of shadow magic. It was hard to tell. Wilson could still remember the first time he had had a taste of the former King's frailty, when he had accidentally stepped on a frog during a vicious bout of spring rain. He had been swarmed with a veritable army of angry amphibians before Wilson could attract them to a patch of aptly placed traps. The attack, that would have been a painful but ultimately forgettable accident for Wilson, had left Maxwell, caught without armor or weapons, absolutely devastated. His recovery had been unexpectedly lengthy, and Wilson had had to consistently help him perform even the most basic and private tasks. One would think, Wilson couldn't help but gripe, that after such ordeals a modicum of respect and trust ought to arise between two gentlemen, but apparently that was not the case.

Yet, Wilson reflected as he run a rough cloth on Maxwell's scalp to dry his hair, all this seemed to matter little on his own side of the equation. Maxwell's consistently appalling behavior, and whether or not he was actually deserving of trust, did not factor in Wilson's decision to trust him. In fact, it was not a decision at all, it was merely a fact, a happenstance that had already taken place without him noticing. He had grown to implicity confide in the ultimately positive outcome of the man's shady actions and plans, that had effectively saved the scientist's skin more often than he'd care to admit. He had started to sleep more soundly, knowing that there was someone always up and about in the camp ready to warn him in case of danger, and that said someone wasn't going to spend his nightly vigil plotting against him. He had especially come to value Maxwell's unshakable mental balance, which was exactly what Wilson had needed on one particularly horrifying occasion, during a harrowing insanity-induced breakdown that he still couldn't remember without heavy discomfort. Maxwell had offered, in that and in many similar circumstances, the pragmatic and dispassionate steadness of mind that Wilson needed to reign in his own fears without being swallowed by self-pity. He honestly could not remember how he had survived certain episodes before having Maxwell at his side. Truth to be told, he did not remember having such bad episodes at all before reaching the throne, and that could also be due to-

Wilson balled up the cloth and juggled it in his hands as he finally let Maxwell free from his ministrations. He could not keep going like this, questioning every little thought and feeling that crossed his mind. There was only one person with the knowledge to dispel or confirm his doubts, and it also happened to be one person he trusted, as illogical as the notion may be. He had already trusted Maxwell once, and the consequences of his blunder had been drastic. He could not bear to think of how devastating it could turn out to be betrayed again. But then, he was already in a position where he felt he could trust Maxwell's judgement more than his own. If that wasn't tragic enough of a situation, which one was?

"...Say. There's something I've been meaning to ask you." Wilson finally said, as Maxwell heavily flopped down on the mat and closed his eyes with a sigh. He just let out a vaguely inquisitive hum, and silence stretched again between them as Wilson struggled to decide exactly how to word his question.

"What is it?" Maxwell eventually mumbled, before Wilson could be tempted to drop the topic.

"What does the throne exactly... do to people?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, it sort of... changes you, doesn't it? You aren't the same person you were before sitting on it, even after you're released. Isn't that what you said?"

"...In a way." Maxwell conceded, opening his eyes again and glancing at Wilson with clear suspicion. "Why do you ask?"

"No reason. I was just curious." Wilson replied quickly. Heavens, way too quickly, he immediately realized, and Maxwell's eyes narrowed even more.

"...Is this about me or you?"

"N-neither! I was just wondering-"

"Let's say about you. Let me guess. Something strange happened to you and you think the throne might be the cause, right?" He paused, scrutinizing the stuttering scientist for the briefest moment, then his brows perked up in visible, disquieting fascination. "Ah. Interesting. What was it?"

God, was Wilson really so easy to read? He was tempted to look away, he wasn't sure that would work in his favor. Instead, he shook his head and collected himself enough to muster a somewhat steadier tone.

"Nothing much. I'm probably just overthinking things. But if you were so kind to tell me how exactly the throne affects humans instead of needling me for fun, it would be easier to distinguish between clear signs and overactive imagination."

Maxwell seemed to weigh Wilson's statement for a moment. In the end, he decided to humour him. He relaxed back on the mat and stared at the ceiling on the tent pensively.

"Again, you assume too much about my knowledge. As far as I know, I'm the first human who ever sat on the throne, so my personal experience would be the only information I could give you. It wouldn't be a good term of comparison for your case though, since our experiences have been so different. I've been bound to the throne for far longer than you have, and I've widely experimented with its powers and let them affect me in turn. Moreover, by the time I got here, I was already somewhat... changed, as you put it. On the other hand, if I remember correctly, you said absolutely nothing happened to you during your brief time as King."

"That's true." Wilson nodded. He had seen no one, heard no one, done nothing until the moment he was freed by his unexpected savior. The whole experience had been unsettling for a grand total of maybe two hours, and then it had quickly descended into utter boredom. "But even if I didn't notice anything, it doesn't necessarily mean that nothing was happening."

"Hm." Maxwell pursed his lips. "What got you so worried about this anyway? What happened?"

"I..." Wilson sighed in defeat. Nothing hindered a diagnosis more than a patient who was secretive about his symptoms, he reasoned. "I've been having... strange dreams. Nightmares, I suppose."

"...That's it?" Maxwell's brow arched in ill-concealed disappointment. "Pal, this whole place is built on literal and metaphorical nightmares. When you close your eyes here, you shouldn't expect to see anything less than the worst horrors your limited mind is capable of conceiving, and much more than that. I'm sure you had nightmares before the throne too."

"Of course, but lately they've been... different."

"How so?"

...All right, there was no way he could put that into words. He could barely make sense of the whirlwind of irrational and incoherent emotions that dominated his dreams in his own head, let alone trying to explain it to another. What he knew for sure was that they almost constantly included Maxwell, and that wasn't exactly surprising. Another thing he knew for certain was the astounding degree of violence involved. Not only with Wilson as a victim, as it was per habit before reaching the throne, but now also as the perpetrator. The scenarios varied widely, from the classic Constant-inspired grotesque torture under the Shadows' supervision, to more mundane and homely beatings in filthy city alleys, to the most creatively abhorrent misuse of every ounce of medical knowledge stored in his brain. All these characteristics may have passed as normal given Wilson's current situation, if it wasn't for an increasing percentage of dreams featuring a different kind of dynamic, one far more mystifying. One where Wilson's hands did not land on Maxwell's body for rage or vengeance, but for pleasure. One that caused him to jump awake in a sweat not with his heart frozen with horror and fear, but with his flesh burning with vim and desire. Sometimes the two circumstances took shape in his brain within the same night, or even in the same dream. Those times were the hardest to dismiss as harmless oneiric nonsense.

"...I wouldn't really know how to explain it. You're probably right anyway, dreams are what they are here." Wilson cut his own thoughts short before they could spiral into further confusion. Maxwell clearly wasn't satisfied with the answer, but Wilson swiftly moved on before he could question him further on the topic. "There's more though. In regards to the darkness. I... I have a strange feeling about it."

Wilson was expecting Maxwell to interrupt him. Instead, he just waited for the scientist to elaborate.

"When I stray too far from the fire, it feels almost... familiar? In a sort of personal way, I think. Like someone I've met. I know there's a monster in there, it has attacked me more than once, but it never felt... like this. It's not just familiar, it's... inviting, even? Distracting, in a captivating sense... Ugh, I really don't know how to explain any of this. And then there's the smell! I feel some sort of floral scent coming from the darkness almost constantly, and I'm sure that's never happened before. I'm starting to wonder if I'm hallucinating everything..."

"You haven't talked about any of this with the others, have you?" Maxwell suddenly inquired. "Or, now that I think of it, about rising to the throne in the first place. You never told them you've been King, however briefly, am I correct?"

"...No, I haven't. It didn't seem... necessary. I may very well be perfectly fine, I didn't want them to worry pointlessly or to think that..." He trailed off, an unpleasant feeling gnawing at his stomach.

"...You didn't want them to look at you like they look at me." Maxwell finished for him, his tone oddly neutral. Wilson gulped, unable to hold Maxwell's gaze any longer. It was a strikingly blunt and simple way of putting it, but an undeniably apt one.

"Can you really blame me for that?"

"No." Maxwell's lips curved into a small smile. "But if you had asked around, you would have spared yourself a headache. This... allure, this magnetic force you sense in the darkness, as well as the rose scent... I feel them too, and not just because I've been on the throne. I'm sure everyone in the camp is susceptible to them. They're not in your head, they're perfectly real. The darkness has indeed changed lately, and I have strong reasons to believe it's due to our new management, so to speak."

"Charlie, right...?" Wilson whispered, trying to recall what little tidbits of information Maxwell had let slip about this mysterious other person trapped by the Shadows, roughly around the same time the former King himself had been captured.

"Yes. At any rate, this is another non-issue on your part. Any more substantial anomalies?" Wilson didn't reply. Maxwell's expression darkened visibly. "...You're leaving the worst for last, aren't you? Out with it, man! It can't possibly be worse than being a werebeaver, and everyone seems to just roll with that without any problems."

...If Wilson didn't have the guts to talk about the dreams, he definitely couldn't come even close to discuss the crux of the matter. Dreams were allowed a measure of oddity, they were an overworked brain's playground devoid of any logic, rules or consequences, everybody knew that. It was an entirely different issue, however, when certain features of a dream started to trickle into a man's awake and cognizant thoughts. It wasn't a glaring phenomenon, it was so subtle that Wilson couldn't even say when it had started. But he had eventually noticed how his thoughts seemed to take strange directions, when Maxwell was involved.

That Wilson's opinion of the man had changed since he had fallen from the Shadows' grace was undeniable, but understandable: despite his many wrongdoings, there was no denying that Maxwell wasn't the real enemy in the Constant, and that the King benefitted from much less control and freedom over his reign than he liked to boast. He wasn't quite as much of a victim of the circumstances as everyone else, but he deserved a fairer judgement than one driven by pure resentment. That Wilson's tolerance had turned into some sort of appreciation was also indisputable, but that could be explained by loneliness and necessity. The harsh environment and the desperate need for all the help one could get could justify the bizarre sort of trust, and even friendship, that could arise between former enemies. Barely, but it could. This brilliant reasoning had started to crack when more survivors had entered the equation, and Wilson was both surprised and unsurprised to notice that he didn't especially care about any of them. They were all sociable enough, helpful enough, capable enough - hell, they were all those things in much greater capacity than Maxwell himself was - but he hadn't felt the need or pleasure to bond with any of them. He was beyond thankful to have more backup and help, and he would unhesitatingly put his life on the line to protect each and every one of them, as any respectable gentleman should in such circumstances, but he didn't quite... care for their company. Not nearly as much as he cared for Maxwell's, despite his foul moods, his cutting remarks, his twisted ways. Or maybe because of all those things. And still, _still_ , all of this could have been labelled as a negligible eccentricity in Wilson's admittedly eccentric character, if strange wishes hadn't started to worm their way into his brain. The wish not only to keep him safe from harm, but to ease his troubles too, by taking care of the heaviest tasks himself, by letting him use the warmest clothing in winter, by consistently taking the brunt of attacks from any monster while Maxwell safely whittled away at it from the sidelines. The wish to outwit his retorts and scathing remarks not to prove the superiority of his own eloquence, but to raise a genuinely amused smile from that perpetually grim face. The wish to inquire about his past and the reasons for his behavior, not out of idle curiosity and not even to garner information that might lead them out of the Constant, but in the hope to find proof that the man's sins might be fewer and less damning than evidence suggested. The wish to offer comfort, in those exceedingly rare occasions when Maxwell's rigid illusion of self-reliance seemed to falter, with something more tangible than words, with a friendly pat on the back, a soothing touch or hug or even-

And therein lay the problem, because this was truly unnatural, in more than one way. Wilson was not a demonstrative man by a long shot, he never had been. He positively loathed pointless effusions, and he had not even remotely missed human contact in his self-imposed isolation in the middle of the thick woods of New England. That he should start to feel a craving for it all of a sudden was puzzling. That he should, at the same time, start dreaming of a much deeper level of intimacy with the same person was suggestive. That such unforeseen development should be centered around a man was shocking. That said man, out of all the possible male creatures his preference could land on, was _Maxwell_ bordered on outrageous. Hence his doubts: was this peculiar development really a genuine preference of his, or were there darker forces at work to twist his mind into such directions for no other reason than sadistic amusement? He couldn't help but feel there was something terribly wrong about it. It simply wasn't how his head worked. While he was no stranger to intimate relationships, his experiences had been few and brief, spurred more by juvenile curiosity than any real engagement. It must have been almost a decade since the last time he had entertained the idea of growing even marginally close to someone. A generic 'someone' that had always been a member of the opposite sex, it bore noting. Should he take all these changes at face value? Even when the object of his predicament was, how very coincidentally, the only other human being who ever sat on the throne? Should he not question the possibility of an underlying connection among this trail of oddities?

... But then, how to explain all this? It was embarassing, and absurd, and private, and delirious. It was the last thing he'd want to discuss with anyone, especially with Maxwell. It was- it was-

"...It's nothing."

"Oh come on, you're a dreadful liar. What is it? Have you been hearing disembodied voices in your head?"

"No- well, aside from the usual whispers when I stay awake for too long, but-"

"Have you experienced blackouts? Unexplained memory loss, signs of possession? Found yourself somewhere without any notion on how you got there?"

"No, of course not-"

"Have you been feeling violent without a reason? Felt like attacking or hurting others for-"

"No! However I _do_ start feeling unreasonably violent when I spend too much time talking with you!" Wilson snapped. "I'm not an idiot, Maxwell! If something that alarming had happened, I'd have spoken up sooner. It's not anything remotely that concerning."

"Then what is it?"

Wilson shook his head, picking up his scattered tools and cleaning up the place. "It's nothing. You needn't worry about me turning into a werepig, I assure you."

Maxwell scrutinized him for few tense moments, then he simply shrugged and plopped back down on the mat.

"...Suit yourself. Judging by the exceedingly vague information you've shared, it sounds like you aren't suffering from anything worse than your average Constant-induced paranoia. Sleep on it and have some mushrooms, doctor."

Wilson ignored the sarcasm dripping from that last epithet. Why had he even brought up the topic in the first place, if he wasn't willing to discuss the most important parts?

...For fear, plain and simple. He was afraid of not being able to trust his own mind, which was the only thing that had allowed him to survive that long. He was still afraid, despite Maxwell's 'diagnosis'. Was there a way to soothe his worries without exposing himself too much?

"...Can I ask you a favor?"

Maxwell's silence felt both like a kindness and an insult.

"Could you... keep an eye on me?" Wilson managed. "Just in passing. If you notice something off about my behavior, could you just... bring it up privately? Just to make sure I'm not overlooking any strange signs."

Maxwell studied him for a long moment.

"Why are you asking me? I barely see you. You spend much more time away from the base with the lumberjack and the arsonist."

"...I'm not really well acquainted with them. I don't think anyone in the camp has known me long enough to notice if my manners were to change, subtly or not. You've been watching me for a long time, though."

"And you would trust me, if I told you so?" Maxwell went on, tilting his head slightly. "If I told you to do or not to do something because it's 'off', you wouldn't assume I'm just trying to manipulate you into doing or not doing something simply because it benefits me?"

...He really didn't get the whole trusting thing, did he?

"I guess I don't have much of a choice either way."

Maxwell kept observing with an unreadable expression. Then, he shrugged and closed his eyes again.

"All right."

"You will?" Wilson couldn't help but asking, surprised by his compliance.

"Sure, why not? It's not like I don't already enjoy every occasion you offer me to point out any and every harebrained idea that goes through your fuzzy head. How's this any different? If you do something stupid, I'll tell you it's stupid."

Wilson blinked. That wasn't exactly what he had envisioned, but he guessed he should take what he could get. And there, just like that, he already felt a little better. He already felt the weight on his chest lighten a bit, just because someone else was informed of the problem (even just a little part of it, a blessedly little part, God forbid Maxwell ever found out about the rest) and had somewhat agreed to lend a hand. It was nice to have a safety net, however flimsy and rude it may be.

"...Thank you."

The rain had stopped. Wilson picked up his supplies and tapped on Maxwell's shoulder.

"Don't fall asleep yet. You've lost a lot of fluids, I'll bring you something to drink."

"I don't sleep and you know it."

"Then why are you lying there in silence and with your eyes closed?"

"Same reason as always. I grow tired of seeing your face and hearing your voice, at times."

Wilson couldn't hold back a small smile. He had already asked that same question, and got that same reply. That was familiar too, even reassuring in its predictability.

"Right. Try not to faint, then."

He walked out of the tent, his smile growing with the irked grumble he got in response.


	3. Chapter 3

"Hey. Higgsbury."

Wilson woke with a gasp, heart racing and chest heaving as something touched his shoulder. His overwhelmed brain took in his surroundings in a frenzy of disconnected bits: the setting sun, the rough table he was napping on, the spilled ink on his half-finished blueprint, the blood rumbling in his own head, the tiny pins and needles tickling his left arm, the gaunt harasser standing beside him.

"Say, pal. You don't look so good."

Wilson blinked at Maxwell, wondering why he was still alive. Oh, right. Not a dream, this one. Not a dream. He wondered if the other man could hear the gears furiously turning in Wilson's brain to sort through real memories and fleeting visions in an effort to make sense of his current situation. He probably could, it felt like they were very rusty and grind-y.

"Can you please. Never say those specific words to me again. Please."

"Have I caught you at a bad time? It didn't seem like there was much inventing going on at the moment."

Wilson drummed his fingers on the table nervously, still dizzy with adrenaline. He focussed very, very hard on eliminating all thoughts of sadism and murder and assorted violence from his brain, but the sight of Maxwell's nonchalant mug made it exceedingly difficult.

"You always catch me at a bad time. When you want to disturb me, just assume it's a bad time. And then don't do it. What do you want?"

Maxwell regarded him with something unpleasantly akin to amusement. He glanced at the ruined sketch on the table.

"Strange dreams, eh? What was this one about?"

"...You don't want to know."

"I beg to differ."

Wilson squinted at him, rubbing his arm to restore the circulation. Well, if he insisted.

"...I wanted to observe the effects of prolonged consumption of raw monster meat on humans. You were the test subject, but you refused to eat it, so I made an incision in your epigastrium-" He poked at the exact spot on Maxwell's abdomen as he explained, "and created a fistula large enough to introduce the minced meat directly in your stomach from the outside. It made you turn into that half-beast thing you used to scare me with when I was travelling to the throne-" He illustrated that passage too, hunching his back and mimicking claws and fangs with his hands and mouth, "and, since you behaved like a rabid dog, I had to put you down. Via decapitation. Then I dismembered you and put your organs in jars with formalin for later study. I think I was doing something with your liver when you woke me, but I can't remember what."

It was rare for Wilson to manage to reduce Maxwell to silence, but those precious few times were always so deeply worth it.

"...I'll say." He eventually commented, scratching his chin pensively. "I never thought there could be any decent material in that hairy nogging of yours, but it looks like you may have turned out not too disappointing a King, after all."

Wilson groaned, rubbing his hands on his face.

"What do you want, Maxwell?"

"Why do you keep asking me? You said you needed my help with some project of yours, remember?"

"Uh... yes, yes, I do. Give me just a moment." Wilson quickly gathered his tools and cleaned up the mess on the table. "You always have such impeccable timing. I've been sitting here all afternoon, but of course you show up the moment I put my head down for five minutes."

"You said I could come when I was free. Well, I'm free now." Maxwell crossed his arms condescendingly. "If your beauty sleep has the priority, I can come back next week or so."

"You've got a busy schedule, haven't you? I suppose that standing around doing nothing and glancing judgementally at people who are actually working does eat up time." Maxwell was about to reply, but Wilson opted for a strategic retreat. "I'll be right back."

"So, what do you need me for?" Maxwell asked when Wilson came back with an armful of equipment. He watched with silent disapproval as Wilson dropped the items messily on the table, save for one vial filled with transparent liquid, which he carefully placed in a roughly-crafted canister. Wilson didn't miss the brief glimpse of concern that crossed Maxwell's eyes when he opened the case containing the syringe. "...I'm just realizing I should have asked this much sooner."

"You know that weird feeling you get after being revived - the feeling that you are indeed very much alive and well, but not quite as healthy as you were before? And no matter how much you eat or rest or heal, you never seem to regain your top shape?"

"Yes."

"Good. I was sure you would, given how vocally you complained about it when you burst out of my meat statue two months ago." Wilson paused to observe the content of the vial against the light: no suspicious discolorations or sediments. "As it turns out, it's a shared affliction. It happened to me too before... before, and others in the camp have confirmed experiencing the same problem. So I decided to see if anything could be done about it."

"I take that you are concocting some sort of serum. Do you need some specific ingredient or magic boost you think I can provide?"

"A fair assumption, but no. I believe I've already hit on a promising formula, and now I only need a suitable subject to test it."

"Ah. You see, that was my second guess, only because I gave you enough credit to reach on your own the obvious conclusion that I would never agree to that."

"Come on, don't be difficult. I promise you it's perfectly safe."

"Says the man who thought that powdercakes were safe for consumption." Maxwell squinted at the vial, hands clasped behind his back. "What's in there?"

"Oh just, you know... some minerals and... organic material. You needn't concern yourself with the technical details-"

"If you had said snake oil, it would have sounded less fishy. Which minerals? What organic material?"

"Well..." Wilson scratched his chin, pointedly avoiding Maxwell's inquisitive gaze. "Some nitre and ground bee stings. And- you know those funny-looking hyphae that were growing on the eggplants we forgot we had? Well, I thought-"

"You must be joking." Maxwell's face contorted into the most comically over-the-top expression of affronted disgust Wilson had ever seen. "Dirt and mold. You mixed dirt and mold into a bottle and you called that a cure? How did you even come up with such a ridiculous idea?"

"Exactly like I come up with every ridiculous idea I've ever had in this wretched place: by using our ridiculous machines, that's how. Or are you going to claim that there's more scientific merit to grinding flower petals to make dream gasoline, or whatever that foul thing is supposed to be?"

"Well, at least that foul thing isn't supposed to go straight into my veins! Your 'cure' is going to give me lockjaw or bubonic plague, if not both at the same time."

Wilson decided to dedicate a single moment of his life to envisioning how risus sardonicus might look on Maxwell's already grotesque set of facial features. He found that his imagination wasn't yet capable of producing such horrors, and he was ultimately grateful for it.

"I told you it's safe. I've already administered samples to some rabbits and pigmen, and they're all perfectly healthy. I've even had a dose of it myself, and as you can see-"

"You took it yourself?" Maxwell gaped at the scientist in utter shock. "Are you out of your mind?"

"Well, rabbits and pigmen aren't humans. Results obtained on them are only partially reliable to predict the effect the serum might have on actual people. And I didn't think it wise to use a potentially flawed drug on an already debilitated patient. I haven't died yet since we met, so I figured I would be the perfect subject to take note of any relevant side effects or issues. There haven't been any, by the way."

"You're a lunatic." Maxwell's bewilderment almost made Wilson laugh. It seemed like such a simple and straightforward process to him. "A complete, raving madman. That thing could have killed you more painfully than I ever did."

"That's extremely debatable, but let's not get sidetracked." Wilson joined the tips of his fingers, flashing his best ingratiating smile at Maxwell. "Care to assist?"

"No, not really. Besides, I've just finished recovering from that accident with the spider queen, so I may still be a tad too 'debilitated' for-"

"You've been 'just finishing recovering' from those two glorified scratches for at least a week. I don't doubt that that is due to the aforementioned post-resurrection weakness, and it is not even remotely just an excuse for you to be even less productive than usual. However, as the resident physician, I am positive you're at least well enough to withstand a harmless drug trial. Does this quell your fears?"

Maxwell pursed his lips, surprisingly giving some serious thought to the matter. "...Wolfgang has died too, once. And he's certainly fitter than me at any given moment. Why didn't you choose him?"

"To be fair, I did ask him first. But..." Wilson considered his fingertips. The memory of that colossal man mewling in horror and backing away from the raised syringe like a cornered animal would haunt him for the rest of his days. "I think he has a phobia of needles. Among the other things."

"Hm. Hard to blame him on that one. The needle of that syringe is barely smaller than an organ pipe."

"It's the best I could put together with the materials I found. Just be thankful I was able to craft one or I would have to resort to scarification."

"I don't like the sound of that."

"You wouldn't like the feel of that either."

Maxwell scrutinized him and his whole apparatus with blatant hostility. He didn't speak, and eventually Wilson sighed in defeat.

"...I can't force you, of course. But I do mean it when I say it's safe. It has given me no side effects whatsoever, I just need to establish if it's actually effective or not." Wilson tapped his fingers on the table, pensively. "I guess I could try again with Wolfgang. Wickerbottom could help me talk him into it, she's good at that. After keeping him on a light diet for while. If he threw a fit in his best shape, he'd probably break my neck with an accidental flicker of his-"

"Oh, fine! Stop whining!" Maxwell burst out, throwing his hands to the sky. "And don't you dare say that I never do anything helpful. I'm literally throwing my own health to the wolves for your divertissement here."

"Splendid!" Wilson grinned, immediately filling the syringe with the precious liquid. "Uncover your shoulder. You don't have any allergies, do you?"

"If I said yes, would you reconsider my involvement?"

"I guess that's a no. Sit." Wilson stood up, politely leaving the chair free for his unhappy subject. Who didn't sit. Nor uncovered his shoulder. Wilson rolled his eyes. "What is it now? I swear, all this fussing for a single prick. Next time I'll just knock you out beforehands and save myself half an hour of pointless arguments."

"Oh, nothing. I was just thinking that I can simply refuse to sit to foil your brilliant plan altogether. There's little you can do to my shoulder from down there."

"...Wow, a height joke. Haven't heard one of those in a while. You're just desperate to buy time at this point. Sit before I stab this in your rear."

Wilson patiently waited as Maxwell begrudgingly complied and took as long as humanly possible to remove the several layers of clothing hiding his shoulder. Wilson also merrily ignored the constant muttering as he applied some antiseptic on the area.

"Mankind owes me a lot for confining you here and saving any possible future patient of yours from your misguided attempts at- Ow!"

"Yes, I'm sure such a charitable deed completely outweighs the God-knows-how-many unexplained kidnappings you've perpetrated in your whole life."

"Not as many as- Ow! This thing burns!"

"Hardly. I'd like to say you deserve a statue for your past and present heroism, but I think there are already far too many around here."

One last completely unwarranted 'ow' marked the end of the unbearable torture as Wilson pulled out the needle and pressed a patch of silk gauze on Maxwell's shoulder.

"Done. It's going to be just a little sore for-"

"You literally just said no side effects whatsoever!"

"That's not a side effect, it's a completely normal local reaction. It won't last more than a few days anyway."

Wilson put away his tools while Maxwell nursed his achy joint with a scowl. "Fine print and shady semantics are more tools of my trade rather than yours, you know?"

"Maybe, but at least I make a point of rewarding blind faith instead of squashing it. Your contribution towards scientific advancement is highly appreciated." Wilson smiled, producing a life-giving amulet from his pocket and handing it to Maxwell with a flourish and a small bow. "Please accept this for your trouble."

Maxwell froze in the middle of buttoning up his shirt, gaping at the item with sheer horror.

"...Oh God, I _am_ going to die."

"No, no no no, this is just for... extra precaution. Just in case. Just in the remote eventuality that the serum might have some utterly unexpected and yet unobserved contraindication. Which it won't, I'm sure. Do feel free to bring to my attention any malaise that may bother you though."

"I hate you."

"Oh come on, I'm joking. Mostly." Wilson chuckled as Maxwell motioned to take the amulet. He instinctively gripped it harder though, suddenly struck by an unpleasant thought. He met Maxwell's puzzled glance with firm eyes. "By the way, I would dearly appreciate it if you used it as intended, this time."

"...I believe I should be granted the freedom to decide how to employ my payment, shouldn't I?" Maxwell's expression changed as well, subtly but unmistakably. Wilson already regretted breaching the subject, but he had no intention of backing down from his request.

"I'm serious. If this ends up like the last one, I'm not going to trust you with another again. They're far too precious to be wasted."

"Wasted, uh?" Maxwell scoffed, letting go of the amulet and standing fully straight to look down on Wilson. Wilson hated how easy it was for the man to look effectively imposing. "Maybe you should give this to someone else then. God forbid I should ever use it to look after myself in the way I see fit."

"You did nothing of the sort. You broke it. You took a resurrection tool, a literal life-saver, and disassembled it." Wilson clenched his fists without even noticing, the argument from a few months before still fresh in his mind. Sometimes Maxwell's behavior was truly unjustifiable. "And for what? To make another goddamn nightmare amulet!"

"That is what I'd call 'looking after myself'', yes. All this time you've spent around me, and you still don't get how my powers work. You're dreadfully unobservant for a scientist."

"Look, I know what you're driving at, but how can you possibly not understand that there's nothing more important than resurrection items here?! They're our only lifeline! They literally avoid _death_! We should scavenge for parts to craft them, not the other way around!"

"You're astoundingly wrong. The smartest thing we can do is to avoid dying in the first place. We don't build meat effigies during a famine, do we?"

"That's not the same thing-"

"Maybe not for you, but it is for me!" Maxwell burst out suddenly. "I _need_ nightmare fuel, don't you get it? Suppose I get slaughtered against some unholy monster with no fuel and a resurrection amulet. I get brought back to life, and then what? If the monster wakes too early, it may very well slaughter me again before I can make a run for it! And even if I manage to get away, do you really think I can gather all the materials I need to survive quickly enough on my own? If I have fuel though, my duelists can lure the enemy away or maybe even kill it, and my gatherers can collect resources for me even if I'm injured. So _yes_ , Higgsbury, having a functional nightmare amulet and therefore decent fuel reserves does qualify as safeguarding my life, as far as I'm concerned."

"I- wait, wait a minute." Wilson shook his head, momentarily stunned. For whatever reason, Maxwell hadn't bothered to explain his reasons in such detail before, and the scientist had to admit there was a logic in them. Still, the remaining flaw was glaring. "You're talking as if you had to survive completely on your own. There's no need for you to be so obsessed about the fuel when you have plenty of other people to rely on. Anyone can help you find food or gather materials or get out of a tricky situation, you don't need to have puppets ready all the time. No one can bring you back if you get killed though."

"A brilliant reasoning. One, however, that is based on the certainty that you won't be left behind, if things took a turn for the worse. In case you haven't noticed, my puppets take care of almost all the heaviest and most time-consuming tasks around here, which is surely a great encouragement for my former captives not to lynch me. But if I run out of fuel, who's to say they won't suddenly remember their grudges?"

"Oh come on, that's ridiculous. We've been camping together for months, you can't possibly still believe the others to be so untrustworthy. We've had each other's backs dozens of times by now, you must see that they've let bygones be bygones. No one would hold it against you if couldn't provide materials for a while. We could easily split the work among ourselves."

"Do you really trust them that much?"

"Of course I do! They're all perfectly respectable-"

"Then why haven't you told anyone about the throne?" Maxwell's smirk was sharp, contrasting strongly with his eerily soft tone. Wilson was caught off guard.

"...I… It's not the same-"

"Again, it's exactly the same thing. You haven't because you're not sure how they'd react. And you're not even the King who brought them here. Consider my position for one moment and you'll see that I have excellent reasons to be unsure how they'd react to _anything_ I may do or not do. Hence my interest in having my own backup always ready at hand."

"...You're looking at this all wrong." Wilson shook his head again. "You have more backup than ever, or at least you would if you bothered to acknowledge it as such, and yet you still stick to your paranoid schtick. Hell, you'd rather stroll on your own among spider nests instead of honestly asking for help. Anyone would have come with you if you had asked. _I_ would have come with you if you had asked."

"I did ask you!" Maxwell retorted venomously. "Last month! Or have you conveniently forgotten?"

"What- You didn't ask me for help! You asked- no, you _demanded_ a red gem! Without even explaining why. A red gem I couldn't give you because I needed it for an amulet!"

"Oh, right! The amulet you then gave to the robot. The goddamn robot, of all people! It doesn't even live here! It shows up only when there are giants around, drops gratuitous threats against all things organic, and then vanishes again. Why would you even bother to craft an amulet for it? I'm sure it just wants to see us all dead-"

"You mean like you did?!" Wilson's voice raised without him really noticing, too caught up in the discussion. "Do you even hear yourself? If there is one person here who shouldn't ever _dare_ question other people's honesty, that's you! At least WX has never actually done anything to hurt us, which automatically makes them more trustworthy than you!"

Maxwell didn't reply immediately. He waited, hands clasped behind his back and a strange, unreadable scowl on his face, until Wilson properly registered the meaning of his own words.

"...That. That is exactly it. That's what everyone thinks, that a perfect stranger would be easily more trustworthy than me, no matter the circumstances. That's what would make anyone hesitate to help, even just for a second. And a second of hesitation can mean a lot when I'm about to be mauled by a hound. _That_ is why I need my own backup."

There were times, many times, when Wilson genuinely thought that Maxwell was hopeless. That he would ultimately seal his own fate through the sheer stubbornness of his own self-absorbed idiocy, no matter how much effort Wilson put into trying to avoid that. And yet.

"...I have never hesitated." Maxwell didn't meet Wilson's eyes as the scientist spoke, apparently too busy with fixing his tie and waistcoat. "Not once."

"...You needed backup too. And I was the only one around to provide it. You have a wide choice now, though."

"Do you really think that?" Wilson asked bitterly, his gaze dropping to the ground. "Do you really think that's all there was to it?"

Even though Maxwell's attire had long since been freed from any wrinkles or unsightly folds, he was still messing with it. Nevertheless, Wilson patiently waited for his answer, as one waited for a bully to decide whether he felt like dedicating ten seconds of his life to stomp on the elaborate sand castle one took two hours to build.

"...No." Maxwell didn't elaborate any further. It was a fortunate decision, for Wilson was already nearing his limit of tolerance for the day, and the umpteenth gratuitous jab or tirade against his stupidity, his morality, his naivety may have just convinced him to never spare another glance at Maxwell's mug again. Or so he liked to think.

"...Good." Wilson nodded thoughtfully. "I guess you can consider me your backup then."

That finally tore Maxwell's attention off his goddamn suit. Wilson shrugged in response to his befuddled glance.

"Honestly it's ridiculous that I even have to say it aloud after I've effectively been your backup for God knows how long, but I guess you might benefit from hearing it. I'm not going to leave you behind, or ignore a request for materials or assistance, if only you can find it in yourself to spare two minutes to motivate it. You have my word on it. And if you were to leave the group for any reason that doesn't involve egregious misbehavings on your part, like trying to murder people in their sleep or something of the kind, I'll leave as well. How does that sound?"

Wilson may as well have turned into a turnip halfway through his speech, judging by the sheer bewilderment of Maxwell's expression.

"What the devil is this about, now?"

"This is about making you stop wasting resources on problems that aren't there. You can go without fuel for a few days or even weeks, if you need to, even if you can't take care of the foraging. Just ask me, if you don't feel like asking the others. And for heaven's sake, take this and wear it!" Wilson outright slipped the amulet around Maxwell's neck, pressing it firmly against his chest to drive the point more clearly. "Don't break it. Don't repurpose it. Just _wear it_."

For the second time that day, Maxwell was shocked into silence, his eyes darting between Wilson's face and his hand. The amulet pulsed under Wilson's palm, instantly warming up as the protective magic activated, and started to beat faintly, like a second heart perfectly in synch with the wearer's. It was a refreshing change to feel its natural, regular beat, without the rush and unsteadiness that blood loss and such distressing circumstances caused. The rhythm was pleasantly familiar, and distracting enough for Wilson to suddenly realize that he had been idly standing before Maxwell for a little too long, a little too close. He let go of the amulet and took a few steps back, until he bumped against edge of the desk, his mind oddly blank.

"Why are you so obsessed with these things, anyway?" Maxwell asked, his tone somewhat subdued as he took the pendant in his hand and rubbed some invisible dust off the red gem. "We have meat statues and even a couple of touch stones. I could die three times within the next hour and I'd still be able to come back without an amulet."

"Statues can be destroyed and the closest stone is almost a day away from the camp. Amulets are always the safest option." In truth, Wilson couldn't quite explain it. Maxwell was perfectly right, living in a large group had allowed them to secure plenty of materials for more resurrection items than Wilson himself had ever hoped for. But, as irrational as it may be, Wilson only felt truly safe when he and everyone around him were wearing a life-giving amulet around their neck. "I just don't like taking any chances."

"Mh. If I didn't know you to be so scientifically inclined, I'd be tempted to call you superstitious. I guess it's only anxiety then."

"You can call it however you like, but it's the reason I've managed to survive this long. Always having a backup plan is what allowed me to best the oh-so-dreadful King of the Shadows."

"Ah! That's precious." Maxwell laughed, without any real bite. Unexpectedly, he leaned against the table too, beside Wilson. He regarded him with a conspiratorial smile, all traces of the previous argument gone from his demeanor. "No need to embellish the truth, pal, I was watching too. Remember the first time you jumped into a wormhole without amulets and the like and without having any idea what would happen? Where was your backup plan then?"

"Ah, but you forget that at the time I was being cornered by a tallbird at the edge of a cliff, without proper armor and at dusk. Jumping in the wormhole _was_ the backup plan, you see."

"...God, you really are the one who bested me. Why. How." Maxwell lamented as he covered his face. "Did They really wish to humiliate me so? Why couldn't it be Wickerbottom? Surrendering the throne to her would have been immensely more dignified. Honourable, even."

"Maybe you just weren't as good at your job as you thought. Or I am a genius survivalist. Take your pick."

"Neither." Maxwell rubbed his shoulder absently. "Are you planning to study the effects of whatever filth you poisoned me with watching me as I slowly shuffle off this mortal coil, or may I retreat to meet my end privately?"

"You're free to go. Many thanks for your unwavering trust and enthusiasm." Wilson simply watched as Maxwell shrugged on his coat. He tried his very best to sound as casual as possible with his next question. "Oh, by the way. Have you been experimenting with your puppets again?"

"Hm? No, not lately. Why?"

"Oh, never mind. I was just wondering."

"...You were just wondering." A single glance from Maxwell was enough for Wilson to know that he was simply hopeless at sounding casual. "And why were you wondering, may I ask?"

"I was just wondering! You do that sometimes! They used to work differently when I met you, and now they're more specialized or something-"

"I only ever revised them that one time, because they were giving me troubles. You wouldn't be asking if you didn't think there was something wrong with them. Why?"

"I, uh… well… to be honest, they did a strange thing yesterday. And I was wondering if it may be because you were, I don't know, trying out a new spell or-"

"Did they try to attack you? Because that would be your fault. I told you you'd eventually get on their nerves if you kept getting in their way while they're working."

"No, no no. In fact, it's… it's the exact opposite." Wilson stopped for a moment. "You know how they always pretend I don't exist, right? They don't communicate, they don't listen, they walk through me, they don't even look at me, and all that-"

"Yes. I am aware of how my own puppets work. Get to the point."

"Yes, right- by the way, why do they do that? I remember you said they behave exactly like you, but you don't-"

"They behave like I would behave if I were an entity of pure shadow with no need or obligation to interact with other people in order to survive. Thus, they ignore you. The _point_ , Higgsbury."

"Right, right. So, the other day I was following a koalefant track up north, between the forest and the swamp. Your puppets were there too, chopping and mining and the like. They didn't acknowledge me, as usual, and I ignored them too." Maxwell crossed his arms and threw his head backwards with deliberate slowness, staring stolidly at the sky with a groan. "I guess, uh… I guess I must have been a bit distracted. The next track was very close to the edge of the swamp, but I thought I was far enough from- are you listening?"

"Regrettably."

"...Right. Anyway, I must have gotten too close to the swamp and I didn't notice the tentacle springing from the ground until too late. I was- it was about to hit me, but… one of your puppets pushed me out of the way." Maxwell didn't move, nor he replied. Wilson continued. "The tentacle actually struck it. It vanished. The other two had stopped working too, they were watching the whole thing, but then they resumed their job as if nothing happened as soon as I got far enough from the tentacle."

"...Mh." Maxwell eloquently commented.

"...I thought it was odd. Even in battle your duelists tend to let me get slaughtered if I don't stick close enough to you. And your harvesters are even more passive. So I was wondering if you had changed them."

"I haven't."

"...Doesn't your neck hurt?"

"No." Maxwell finally directed his scowl at Wilson instead of at the murky sky of the Constant. "Is this the conundrum? The puppet probably just tripped. You can add this to the long list of strokes of luck that have spared you yet another painful death. Rejoice."

"It didn't look like it just tripped. I don't think it was even near me when I knelt down to examine the track. And the other two were staring too-"

"Look, I'd understand your perplexity if they had tried to skewer you, but they actually helped you for once. All the better, yes? Why does this concern you so much?"

"Why doesn't it concern _you_?" Wilson insisted. "Your puppets are behaving abnormally without your direct input. What if something or someone else was influencing them?"

"Where the hell did you get that idea?" Maxwell scoffed. "There are no other shadow magic users around here. And They certainly wouldn't hijack my puppets to save your neck."

"Well, maybe there's another possibility." Wilson hesitated. Discussing the matter with Maxwell had seemed like a good move the previous night, while disturbing thoughts were keeping him awake long past the sunset. In that moment, not quite as much. "What if there was someone else with the same powers you have?"

"Bollocks. I'm sure there are only two human beings who ever became acquainted with shadow magic, and the other one is the current Queen. Not to mention I would have already noticed. I keep a keen eye on the invisible forces at work in the area, you know?"

"Maybe it's someone you haven't noticed because… they haven't used their powers yet. Maybe because they don't know they have them…"

"...I'm not sure I'm quite following you, although you seem to be heading in a very specific direction." Maxwell frowned. Wilson felt like he was melting under that stern scrutiny. All right, there was no point in beating around the bush.

"...Listen. I sat on the throne, right? I've been King. Maybe while I was there, I did absorb a bit of shadow magic. Maybe the puppet responded to that, and therefore defended me. Or maybe- maybe _I_ made it defend me without noticing-"

"Wait, wait, _wait_." Maxwell raised a hand to stop him as he pinched the bridge of his nose. "Is this what it's all about? Are you still being paranoid about the throne? I told you you're fine, stop overanalyzing every trifling thing that happens to you."

"But how can you be so sure?" Wilson insisted. "What if I did take control of your puppet for a moment, without noticing? I was about to be killed, I asked for help! Maybe not vocally, but surely subconsciously. And help I did get, from shadow slaves that barely even bothered to acknowledge my presence before! Don't you find it weird?"

"...Oh my God, you're-" Maxwell muttered through his teeth, and then stopped abruptly. For a moment, he seemed on the verge of literally biting Wilson's head off, flushed and irate as he looked. However, he reined himself in with uncharacteristic grace. He rubbed a hand on his face, then he sighed and drew the Codex from the inner pocket of his coat. He held it before Wilson's eyes. "Listen, and listen well. Shadow magic isn't something you just 'absorb' because you sat somewhere for a while. Even if They allowed you to tap into its power freely, without proper study and willing sacrifice, you couldn't use it for anything more than cheap parlor tricks. I've been honing my own skills for decades, at great personal costs, and I've barely scraped the surface of what this book has to offer. Now, ingrain this simple concept into your brain: the mere thought that someone like you, without an ounce of talent or knowledge or training about magic, could overturn my own spells, even for a second, even by accident, is utterly ludicrous."

Wilson wrung his hands nervously. "...Are you sure?"

"Absolutely." Maxwell did sound as sure as one could possible get, but his stern demeanour deflated into a discouraged sigh before Wilson's unresponsiveness. "But you won't be convinced that easily, I guess."

"It's not that I don't trust your expertise on the matter, mind you." Wilson offered. "It's just that… I keep thinking about it, and I can't help but feel that I can't just have left the throne room unscathed. And all these weird things that have been happening-"

"Are definitely not weird at all. I thought we'd been over this. Why have you been fixating on this so much?" Wilson shrugged, not knowing how to reply. Maxwell considered him for a moment, scratching his chin. "Have you tried doing it again?"

"Doing what?"

"Controlling a puppet."

"No, of course not! I-"

"Well, shame on you then. What good can your harebrained hypotheses be without repeatable evidence?" Maxwell suddenly grabbed Wilson by his arm and dragged him in a seemingly random direction. "Come. Maybe some good old scientific method will convince you."

"Wha- wait, where are you going?" Wilson stammered, stumbling along.

"To test your theory. Or rather, to make you fail at it as many times as you need to be convinced that it's impossible."

"Why are you suddenly so invested in this? I thought you were busy."

"I'm always invested in watching you make a fool of yourself. Ah, there's one."

Maxwell pointed at the farm just outside the camp, where one of his puppets was filling his third- no, fourth basket of berries, freshly picked from the neat rows of bushes. They stopped to the side of the field, and Wilson watched the puppet accomplish its task with methodic precision for a few moments.

"Well, have at it." Maxwell plopped heavily on the ground and popped a few berries into his mouth from the closest basket as he opened his book and idly started flipping through it. Wilson gaped at him.

"I have no idea how to do it!"

"Do whatever you think you did before. See what happens."

"You aren't being very helpful, you know?"

"Because there's nothing to help you with. It's impossible. We're only here to establish that."

Wilson muttered unrepeatable words under his breath. He tried his best to forget about Maxwell and focussed on the puppet. He stared at it, took in its featureless silhouette, a seemingly two-dimensional Maxwell-shaped smudge of inky blackness. He tried to take in its very essence, its unthinking, unfeeling existence, created for the sole purpose of going through a limited and established set of motions. If there was really any power in him, it couldn't be too difficult to steer such an empty vessel towards his own desires. He decided he wanted to make it drop the basket. Easy enough. He focussed on that thought. He visualized it. He imagined the exact gesture, he imagined the puppet's grasp on the basket loosening, his hand opening, the item dropping on the ground, spilling its contents all over. He ordered it. He willed it into reality. He put every ounce of his mental faculties into that specific wish. He _wanted_ it.

Nothing happened.

"Your face is redder than your waistcoat. Try not to get yourself a stroke, I'd certainly be blamed for that."

Wilson found himself slightly short on breath. Had he been holding it without noticing? "How am I supposed to command these things? How do you command them?"

"I don't. They don't need orders, they're autonomous and smart enough to know what they have to do."

"Do you really think there's no chance I did that?"

"Let's put it this way. The day you'll manage to take control of any of my puppets for half a second will be the day I'll entrust the Codex to you as the legitimate owner and superior user of its dark arts, and I'll also humbly prostrate myself at your feet begging for your teachings. How likely does that sound to you?"

"Not much, but it's certainly an excellent motivation to keep trying." Wilson grumbled. He tried again. He stared at the puppet hard enough to bore a hole in it, gritting his teeth and clenching his fists with the sheer effort. He absolutely, positively, unmistakingly bid it to _drop the basket_. He even outstretched his hand towards it, as if to transmit his order through his very own body, and- and then Maxwell snorted loudly and he got completely distracted.

"What? _What_?" Wilson burst out, his cheeks burning. "You gesticulate all the time when you're channeling your magic!"

"Yes, because _I_ have magic to channel. What are _you_ channeling?" Maxwell cackled. Unhelpful bastard. Wilson groaned in defeat.

"I can't do it. Not like this, at least. Maybe it happens only in very specific circumstances, like if I'm very stressed or in mortal danger."

"A brilliant hypothesis. Let's test that too." Maxwell sprang to his feet, radiating the most unsettling merriment. "Give me a minute to fetch my sword."

"Quit it." Wilson grabbed his jacket to stop him. "All right, you win. I must have been wrong. That still doesn't explain your puppet's behaviour though."

"Maybe he just wanted to end it." Maxwell shrugged, putting away his book.

"End what?"

"Its life."

Wilson blinked. "Is that a thing that they do? Do they get… depressed?"

"You'd get depressed too if you were a somewhat sentient, disposable tool forced to chop trees for the entirety of your fleeting existence."

Wilson considered the silent worker for a long moment, before Maxwell stretched his back with a showy yawn.

"Well, as entertaining as watching you achieve absolutely nothing for the last fifteen minutes has been, I think I'll head off. Feel free to keep trying if you think that you may have better luck without me interfering with your blooming powers."

"...Right. I think I'll head off as well." Wilson murmured. He turned on his heels and took a step towards the camp, and found itself right before- no, _within_ the puppet, as it was passing by to put down another full basket. The puppet seamlessly phased through him, as they oft did, but the basket could not. It bumped against Wilson's chest and fell on the ground, berries rolling everywhere. The puppet stopped. It looked down at the basket, somewhat dejectedly. Then, its eyeless face turned towards Wilson. Straight towards him.

Maxwell clicked his tongue, shaking his head. Wilson's blood froze in his veins.

"...Uh, sorry." He found himself saying as he knelt down and started gathering the scattered fruits. "Here, I'll just…"

The puppet observed him for almost a full minute. Then, when Wilson was almost done cleaning up the mess, it grabbed two full baskets and walked off towards the camp.

"...When you say that one of these days getting in their way will get me killed, you're clearly joking, right?"

"Not really. A duelist could definitely do it, with enough motivation. But foragers don't have much violence in them." Maxwell stopped for a moment. "Although, if I were them, and I am, I wouldn't be above ganging up on you, tying you to a tree and chopping off a few of those luxuriant locks of yours."

Wilson instinctively run a hand through his hair. "That's not funny."

"That wasn't a joke either." Maxwell smiled one of those creepy smiles of his. "Good afternoon, pal."

Wilson silently tried his hand at an improvised hex centered around broken ankles, bees and Glommer's goop. Just in case. He shook his head as he finished gathering the spilled berries. He put the basket near the remaining one, wondering if carrying them to the camp himself would be enough of an apology for-

He blinked, his thoughts finally connecting. It had dropped the basket. _The puppet had dropped the basket_.

"Maxwell, wait!" Wilson called out, but Maxwell had already disappeared. Should he find him, tell him? It may have been an accident. Maxwell- he would almost certainly deem it an accident, wouldn't he? And yet, the puppets were always so very precise with their movements, and so very aware of their surroundings… Could Wilson have…?

He stared at the baskets, more confused than ever.


	4. Chapter 4

The darkness vanished in overflowing hues of gold, red and pink as the first sunrays appeared. Few thin, non-threatening clouds streaked the sky, promising a wonderfully clear and bright day. All was calm and silent, save for the occasional chirping of the birds and the cheerful burbling of the food in the crockpot. The scent from it was delightful too, exciting like only a simple and hearty breakfast could be for an empty stomach. Between the fire and the hot pots, even the temperature was pleasant, just cool enough to shake off the torpor of sleep and get one into gear for a productive day. Wilson crossed his arms and leaned back against the ice box with a content sigh, focussing all his senses on letting that invigorating atmosphere permeate his very soul. Whether by design or by accident, even the Constant offered its moments of beauty and peace, and one had to be either foolish or heartless not to partake in those rare gifts.

"These eggs are runny. Practically raw." Maxwell grumbled, poking around the bowl with his crude fork. "It takes some skill to mess up frying an egg."

"Why don't you make your own breakfast?"

"Why waste the effort? You're going to make it for everyone anyway."

"Now that I think of it, why don't _you_ make breakfast for everyone? You're always awake before anyone else anyway."

"Oh, sure. Why don't I, on top of taking care of the heavy gathering and the occasional magic necessities, also do the cooking? Why don't I give everyone back massages and polish their shoes too, while I'm at it?"

"Why do you hover around me and pester me for an early portion, only to complain that it isn't cooked properly? Intriguing questions, I agree." Maxwell snorted, and Wilson finally averted his attention from the horizon to consider his unhappy diner's plate. His whites were a bit transparent, and not nearly the most disgusting or dangerous thing either of them had ever ingested. "Fine, leave that. I'll give you another."

Maxwell waited in irreproachable silence for the remaining minute of cooking time, while Wilson finished preparing more meat and proteins than Maxwell himself had in his whole body.

"Oh, by the way, we're planning to hold a birthday party tonight." Wilson casually offered, along with the second, piping hot and perfectly executed portion of bacon and eggs.

"A _what_?"

Maxwell wasn't exactly the kind of man who wore his heart on his sleeve. However, he had a way of openly displaying few selected emotions, contempt and bewilderment in particular, that could have earned him a living as an actor in the real world. There was something oddly likable in how his whole lanky body bent forwards to deliver an accusatory glance or backwards to highlight the most artificially genuine shock, or in how his features crumpled in disgust or bloomed in deranged amusement, something that inexplicably made one tend to chuckle and humour his curious mannerism rather than mock it.

"Nothing grand, mind you, but I think the kids will appreciate it anyway. They haven't celebrated it in who knows how long, and this happens to be roughly the time of year they were both born in, so-"

"A _birthday party_?" Maxwell repeated, still shell shocked by the news. He was even letting his precious second portion get cold. He wasn't getting a third one, that was for sure. "You do realize that seasons - hell, that time itself is purely ornamental here, right? They aren't any older than when they arrived!"

"Maybe not physically, but I'd say they've certainly grown in other ways. Hardship and death toughen the spirit, don't they?" Wilson mused, sitting beside Maxwell and claiming the discarded dish for himself. He eagerly shoved a good quarter of its content in his mouth with a single forkful, almost tearing up from how tasty it was. It was the small things in life.

"Don't go all philosophical on me, it doesn't suit you." Maxwell spared him a single judgemental glance before picking at his own food too, thankfully without further complaints. "Besides, we have more urgent things to worry about. It's almost winter, we have to mend the warmer clothing and make some new thermal stones-"

"The'e ifnt mah two-"

"Were you raised in a barn!? Chew, you animal!" Maxwell unceremoniously pushed Wilson's head sideways, censoring his regrettable lack of table manners. Wilson doggedly chomped on his food and gulped it down purposefully loudly, ignoring Maxwell's disgruntled groan.

"There isn't much that still needs to be done, actually. And we have a huge surplus of food, we may as well put it to good use before it spoils."

"And, instead of turning it into meat statues or feeding it to the birds or the pigs, you suggest you fools simply stuff your face with it while singing obnoxious tunes near the fire? Have you people learnt nothing at all about resource management?"

"Relax. We're good on supplies for food and materials, we all have life-giving amulets, neither hounds nor giants will attack for another week, at least. We can afford to take it easy for a single day."

"Ridiculous. I won't be taking part to any of this nonsense."

"Believe it or not, no one was really expecting you to." Wilson sighed. He helped himself to an extra portion from the crockpot, as a reward for putting up with Maxwell's charming personality so early in the morning, every morning. "Woodie and Wolfgang have kindly offered to decorate the camp according to the kids' every whim. Willow will be taking care of the cooking-"

"Oh God, why would you let her do that? She'll set the whole place on fire-"

"In her own camp. Wickerbottom will keep an eye on her too. She's objectively the best cook out of all of us, even though her dishes tend to be-"

"Charred."

"Slightly overcooked. Sometimes." Wilson patiently corrected. "Are you sure you don't want to join us? You could use some-"

"I can think of at least half a dozen better things to do with my time, frankly. Including catching fireflies, reading, and being murdered by bats."

"That is certainly one way you could spend your night, yes." Wilson absently commented. He eyed his grumpy companion with mix of concern and curiosity. Maxwell wasn't the most easy-going and jolly fellow even at his best, but usually he wasn't that unsociable. "You know, I was thinking that you could-"

"Pass."

Wilson pouted. "Hear me out, at least-"

"No. Whatever you're thinking of suggesting, no."

The tempting scent of breakfast was always the best wake-up call in the camp; the low murmurs and rustles coming from the tents informed Wilson that the others would be joining them soon, and by that time Maxwell would have already disappeared. Ordinarily, Wilson wouldn't dedicate too much mental energy to challenge Maxwell's rebuttal: the man needed to meet his daily quota of lonely sulking just like air, apparently, and experience had proved that dragging him into forced socialization would only backfire tragically. But that day, Wilson decided, was going to be a good day. A day of merriment and rest and good food and birthday parties, a good day like no one in the Constant had had in ages, and he didn't want a single, fleeting worry to cross his mind even for a second. He wouldn't worry about death, he wouldn't worry about finding a way out, he wouldn't worry about the Shadows and their throne, and he wouldn't worry about where the hell Maxwell could be or what could be slaying him at any given moment. He gobbled down the rest of his eggs, eliciting yet another disgusted noise from the object of his current predicament. He put down the plate and casually threw his arm around Maxwell's shoulders, giving him his widest smile and holding his fork like a cigar, channeling his best impromptu impression of demonic persuasion.

"Listen, pal-"

"I will gouge your eyes out with my bare hands, Higgsbury."

"You know, death threats lose their edge after being enacted more than 50-60 times. Anyway, I was merely thinking that you may delight us with one of those fascinating shadow shows of yours, like you did on Hallowed Nights. Everyone loved it, especially the kids!"

"Oh, how flattering. I'm being recruited as the court jester. Too bad the mime isn't here."

"What mime? Is there a-"

"No. There isn't."

"Mh. Too bad. I think you'd make a decent mime yourself, to be fair-"

"YOU TAKE THAT BACK-"

"Whoa, all right, no mimes! But I do wish you performed for us tonight." Maxwell didn't reply, and Wilson flashed him a marginally more honest smile. "Do it for the children, at least? You know, the children you kidnapped and likely mentally scarred for life? One of whom is your own flesh and blood-"

"Oh, for the love of - why are you so insistent about this?"

"Because it would be fun! It's the point of this whole thing, to get everyone's mind off things and just have _fun_ , for once! And I do mean everyone, including you- don't give me that look, I saw you last time, you were having a blast with those illusions-"

"Gööd mörning, Wilsön!"

Wigfrid's fierce salute startled them both, and suddenly a swarm of famished survivors assaulted the steaming pots, in a lively cacophony of greetings and compliments to the chef. Maxwell immediately seized the occasion to weasel out of Wilson's grasp with the efficient grace of an annoyed cat.

"You'll think about it, then!" Wilson threw out, somewhat hopeful. He thought he saw Maxwell's hand waving in response, utterly vague and non-committal, before he disappeared among the tents. Well, it had been worth a try.

Wilson's day was indeed one he'd later remember with fondness. It had been so long since he had been able to afford the luxury to pour his remarkable inventiveness into purely recreational activities! Crafting decorations and trinkets with no purpose other than making them pleasing to the eye and amusing, with no concern for their durability or their usefulness, was incredibly refreshing. Everyone seemed to be feeling the same, and the camp was soon filled with a playful and gaudy atmosphere that drew laughs and jokes out of anyone who happened to stop by. Time literally flew by as the preparations for the party proved to be just as enjoyable as the main event was going to be. It was dusk before Wilson realized it, with three firepits blazing to light up the whole base and more than a dozen lanterns strategically placed for extra safety and ambience. Willow and Wickerbottom had produced enough delicacies to satiate a whole army, and everything smelled and looked so damnably appetizing that Wickerbottom had to guard the food with a stick to keep rude hands from snagging an early bite: Wilson himself got slapped once on his wrist for trying to steal a butter muffin, and twice on his head for trying to get Chester to commit the heinous deed in his stead.

The official start of the party was signalled by a veritable barrage of firecrackers and applauses for the youngest pair of survivors. In truth, Wendy's mood didn't seem to be any better than any other day's, impervious as she was to any sort of positive emotion, but Wilson considered the fact that she wasn't openly annoyed by the noise and the celebration of a prolonged lifespan a small victory in itself. Webber, on the other hand, was having the time of his life. Somehow, he had interpreted Wickerbottom's constructive speech about age and personal growth as an encouragement to share what he had learnt in his hypothetical year in the Constant, starting from a genuinely impressive wrestling technique to be employed against pig warriors. Naturally, that had quickly devolved into playful roughhousing between Webber and Wolfgang, aptly clad in pigskin to better fit the part, and Wilson could only hope it wouldn't result in too many accidental bruises. He watched in genuine amusement for a while as they tumbled on the ground at a safe distance from the fire, chuckling at Wolfgang's belligerent oinks and Webber's boisterous battlecries. Soon, however, Wilson's enthusiasm started to wane. Not for any particular reason, just… well, Wilson wasn't exactly a party animal. Noise and abundant company usually entertained him for an hour or so, but it was never long until he automatically gravitated towards the edge of the room and just got lost in his own head, letting the music and the chatter and the people blend in the background as his mind drifted back to that one project he was so invested into. Currently, he was short on idées fixes, so he simply let his eyes wonder. On the food first, yes, he was that base. While Wickerbottom was busy scowling at the brawl, he casually strolled to the table and snatched one of the coveted muffins; he idly munched on it as the little bubble of enthusiasm around the contenders kept sizzling without him.

Eventually, he noticed that Wendy wasn't among the cheering crowd. He gazed around the camp in concern, but he spotted her soon, sitting at the very edge of the light and rather far from the group, holding her flower in her lap. Beside her, intently observing the unique item, was Maxwell. Wilson hadn't noticed he had arrived; in fact, he had given up hope he'd even show up soon after he'd made himself scarce at dawn. Wilson couldn't tell what they were doing: they appeared to be talking only now and then, and very briefly. At one point, Maxwell cupped the flower under his palm; when he removed it, shadows bled from its petals, morphing into copies of the flower itself, tied together and elegantly arranged as a whole garland. Wendy gingerly took it in her hands and studied it carefully, before wearing it. She was smiling.

A sharp cry from the crowd distracted them. Webber was standing victoriously on top of a squealing Wolfgang, dramatically begging for mercy. Neither Maxwell nor Wendy looked especially impressed, but Maxwell smirked when the girl whispered something in his ear. He closed his fist and made an odd gesture, as if he was rolling something between his fingers. He opened his palm, and tiny lumps of shadow plopped down from it, rolling here and there on the ground. They immediately grew small appendages and started crawling towards the group - they were spiders, Wilson realized as soon as they were close enough: not the kind of abominable arachnids that dwelled in the Constant, but the inoffensive earthly sort. Wilson hadn't seen an ordinary spider in so long that he had almost forgotten they existed, and for some reason the realization made him inordinately nostalgic. How long had he even been away from home? It felt like a lifetime… Well, technically it was. Many, many lifetimes, however brief.

Wilson lost sight of the shadowy critters as they creeped among the crowd, unseen. Wolfgang's scared yelp, a genuine one this time, made it clear where they were headed, and Wilson rolled his eyes. For all his haughty talk and composure, Maxwell had some rather juvenile tastes on the matter of pranks. Webber, on his part, immediately started collecting the spiders with obvious delight, letting them scuttle freely on his shoulders and head. He was positively adorable, at times. He ran to the dastardly duo as soon as he identified them as the responsibles for the disruption, and the rest of the group spontaneously followed. Maxwell didn't look particularly happy about the invasion of his little corner of darkish solitude, but he didn't complain vocally.

Finally, Wickerbottom declared it was time for dinner. Wilson barely managed to shove the rest of the muffin in his mouth before she finished her sentence, half choking in a desperate attempt to erase all incriminating proof. He obligingly waited for everyone else to grab their servings before approaching the banquet with an innocent smile. He was met with no reprimands, but the tight line of the librarian's mouth made him suspect that he'd be charged with a sizable amount of crockery to wash later.

The feast was absolutely to die for. The loud chatters and laughters were soon replaced by the sound of vigorous chewing and a veritable onslaught of praises for Willow, who kept insisting that the best ingredient in any winning recipe was a fierce, crackling fire under the pot, and possibly around and inside it too.

"We should do this more often, eh?" Wilson heard Woodie comment amidst the other voices. "Lots of us usually eat at the same time, but we rarely do it _together_. Do you get what I'm saying?"

"You are absolutely right, dear." Wickerbottom agreed. "It isn't always easy to find the time and the energy to be properly sociable in this dreary place, but it would undoubtedly do us a world of good."

"For what purpose? When death will inevitably seize one of us, our bonds will only deepen our suffering and haunt us to our own grave." Wendy objected, and Wilson didn't miss the small smile her words elicited on Maxwell's face. Everyone else remained understandably silent, until Webber, probably used at the girl's candid morbidity, chimed in as if no one had just exposed the tragic truth of human attachment.

"You know what would make this party even better? A story!" He looked straight at Maxwell, his many eyes shining with the unbridled excitement that only a hopeful child could harbour. If possible, everything went even quieter.

"...You want a story, eh?" Maxwell popped his last honey nugget in his mouth, without looking up from his plate. Suddenly, the old man was the center of everyone's attention, and Wilson could bet that at least half of the bystanders, including him, were more or less expecting him to single-handedly ruin the evening with some untimely jab or rant. He unhurriedly put down his empty dish, cleaned his hands, and slipped his black gloves on.

"You know, I met a sailor once, just come back from a lengthy trip on the shores of Angola, who told me the tale of a boy just like you." Maxwell stood up and started pacing in the middle of the rough circle of people, slowly rubbing his hands. Wilson could vaguely spy something coming into existence between Maxwell's palms, some sort of fine, black mist; it almost looked like the gloves themselves were dissolving into thin air. "Anansi, the boy was called. A bright, mischievous lad, half human and half spider, with a heartfelt craving for stories as well."

Maxwell waved his left hand with a flourish and a whiff of smoky shadow wafted from his fingers, coalescing into a vague Webber-shaped cloud. The apparition was different from Maxwell's usual puppets: it was more ethereal, less defined and completely immaterial. Nevertheless, it fluttered and danced around with delightful ease and fluidity, immediately capturing everyone's gaze and even earning Maxwell a couple of awed 'Ooooh'. The story, as far as Wilson could tell, was a charming and classic fairytale with an exotic flair: a young boy sent on a quest for dangerous beasts, which he managed to capture against all odds through sheer wit and cunning. Despite the simplicity of its content, the tale positively enraptured the audience thanks to Maxwell's stunning performance. Characters, monsters, items and even scenery were promptly summoned by Maxwell's magic as soon as they were mentioned, interacting with each other, phasing through the onlookers and fusing hypnotically. Maxwell himself often stepped out of the circle to leave his creations under the spotlight, only to suddenly jump in again with a dramatic roar to highlight the plot twist. At one point, he even dived face-first into the silhouette of the current villain, brought the lit tip of his cigar to his lips and blew out, reproducing, in all its erupting magnificence, the impressive burst of fire the monster had just spit towards the protagonist. Wilson found himself wishing he had two pairs of eyes, so that he could watch both the shadows and Maxwell at the same time, for they were both spectacular in their own merits. The former King's hands never stopped moving, his fingers wiggling and flicking as if he was really controlling his shadows via invisible strings. He never stopped pacing either, circling his spectators, drawing bizarre shapes in the air with the smoke arising from his cigar, as if tying his story together with that ephemeral strand. His narration was impeccable as well: he acted out each character's lines with genuine passion (needless to say, he had a talent for channeling villainous threats and malignant snark), and his low tone and naturally coached voice had an enthralling quality that literally stole the show. When the story came to an end and the triumphant spider boy was promoted to God of the Stories, no less, for his brave deeds, Wilson felt the genuine impulse to join Webber in his enthusiastic request for one more tale. Everyone clapped warmly, and Maxwell dispelled his shadows with one last, wide motion. For the first time in the whole evening, Wilson's and Maxwell's eyes met and for a moment, just for a moment, Maxwell's perfect showmanship seemed to falter: something shifted imperceptibly in his studied confidence and he stopped, briefly holding Wilson's gaze, before bowing deeply to his audience.

Sadly, Maxwell wasn't in the mood for an encore, and soon he retreated back to the farthest corner of the camp, away from the mounting buzzing and chit-chat. Wilson graciously allowed him five minutes of respite from human interaction, before deciding to fetch two cups of berry juice and join him there.

"That was amazing." He sat beside Maxwell and handed him a drink. The other man accepted both the compliment and the juice with a nod. "You really have a knack for this sort of thing. You always look perfectly at ease when you're in the spotlight."

"I have been told. You could use developing the same skill, you know. The quality of your stitches is inversely proportional to the number of people observing you while you're applying them."

"Ehr, yes, I'm working on that. Speaking of peculiar skills, what's the deal with that fire-spitting thing you pulled off back there? You can't actually _create_ fire, right? Because that would have come very handy on a bunch of different occasions-"

"I swear you get more gullible every time the sun rises. No, I can't spit fire. That was just some basic fire-breathing trick."

"I guessed so. It was fairly impressive but, if I were you, I wouldn't have done it with Willow watching. She's definitely going to try to do that, probably setting the whole camp on fire in the process. And when that happens, I'm going to blame you."

"Like hell you are! She's a grown woman, she's responsible for her own actions."

"Maybe, but you do have a talent for bringing out the worst in people. Anyway, how come you know how to breathe fire? Do you get a free course when you're hired as a demon? Does that figure among the key curricular skills devils in training need to acquire?" Maxwell snorted in his drink, and Wilson smiled as well. "Do you have to pass a fire-breathing qualifying examination before you're deployed to torment mortals? I suppose that demons who can't properly handle the heat must be fairly damaging to the corporate image-"

"You cheeky sod." Maxwell burst out laughing heartily. That jovial sound, so rare to hear, warmed something deep within Wilson's chest. "Sure, why not? If I told you the truth, you wouldn't believe it anyway."

"Oh, yeah? Try me." Wilson grinned, leaning his cheek on his palm and turning face Maxwell fully.

"Mh, let's see…" Maxwell stroked his chin with a playful smirk. "I'll give you three options. See if you can figure out the real one."

"Nothing is ever easy or straightforward with you, is it?"

"Number one: I learned it from my own creations. I simply had to study how the dragonfly harnesses and redirects heat from the atmosphere to grasp the basic mechanism."

"Mmmh… an intriguing explanation, but a faulty one. You can't possibly create something functional without knowing or at least guessing how it works beforehands."

"With just that one sentence, you fully proved your complete ignorance about the very foundations of the magic arts. Anyway, number two: I learned it from an alcoholic, self-proclaimed fakir travelling with a circus in exchange for half a bottle of Port."

"That's so ridiculously out there I can't even imagine how you came up with that."

"Number three: I never learned it. This was my first attempt ever and I instantly nailed the technique by virtue of my natural, unrestrained talent."

"...This is stupid. All of these are stupid. You're just pulling my leg." Wilson pouted. "You're right, I'm just going to assume Satan taught you."

"Suit yourself." Maxwell chukled, taking another sip.

"What did you use as fuel? Oh, wait-"

"You guessed it. Nightmare fuel, what else?"

"I didn't see you put it into your mouth though… Where did you keep it?"

"Inside my very soul."

"Ha! Ha ha! That- that was a joke, right?"

"Oh, I wish." Maxwell declared with the utmost seriousness, taking a long drag from his cigar like the overly dramatic ass that he was.

"Is nightmare fuel even flammable? I experimented with it a few times, but I never managed to ignite it…"

"It can be, in the right hands. It's extremely versatile if you know how to use it."

"Well, that wasn't an unnecessarily vague or creepy explanation in the slightest."

"Oh, my apologies. I'd hate to accidentally give you the impression that your onslaught of childish and nosy questions was getting on my nerves."

"Oh no, you aren't fooling me, you know?" Wilson waved his finger at Maxwell with a knowing smirk. "You're in high spirits tonight, no matter how hard you try to hide it. It's quite telling that you even went as far as to waste some of your oh-so-precious fuel for the sake of our silly entertainment-"

"Mph! I only used few drops for the fire. The shadows didn't even require any, they were little more than glorified tricks of light-"

"Nevertheless! You had a whale of a time and it showed, and damn if that wasn't refreshing to see you waltz around like that!"

Maxwell gave Wilson a strange look. "Well, I'm certainly glad that my favorite petulant brat enjoyed the show. And Webber and Wendy too, of course."

"Hey, no need to be- oh. Ha! See? You're on fire tonight! With or without fuel." Maxwell pinched the bridge of his nose with a pained groan, but it wasn't enough to hide the obvious smile on his lips. "...You know, I'm glad you took up my suggestion. We've all been in dire need of a break for a while. Especially the kids, especially considering it's their birthday-"

"It really isn't."

"It probably isn't." Wilson conceded. "But what's the point of surviving just for the sake of surviving, with no real perspective of escape in sight, if we can't find it in ourselves to enjoy our hard-earned lives?"

Maxwell didn't reply immediately, regarding Wilson with something awfully similar to concern.

"...Say, is everything all right?"

"Uh? What do you mean?"

"I don't know, you've been awfully sentimental lately. And what's with all this 'poor kids' here, 'poor kids' there? Where does this misplaced parental solicitude come from?"

"What an asinine question. I'll give you a pass for not caring about the unjust punishment you've served to a bunch of naive adults, but Webber and Wendy, of all people, deserve better than being confined in this dreadful place. They're just children!"

"Tsk! If you ask me, children are just as selfish as adults, if not worse. They'd literally sell their siblings for a handful of liquorice."

"Oh come on, how can you be so cynical?"

"I am not, it's perfectly true. My brother did it twice, and he didn't even share the sweets. Wretched rascal."

"Your brother?" Wilson couldn't help but ask.

"Mm-hm." Maxwell didn't notice his surprise immediately, but he did when Wilson kept staring silently at him in mild fascination. He made a face. "What's that doe-eyed look for? You chewed my head off for having a niece, you already know I have a brother."

"No, I didn't! It could have been… a sister… too…" It didn't sound nearly as silly of a reply in Wilson's head, truly. And Maxwell's raised eyebrow did nothing to diminish his rapidly growing embarassment.

"Can't argue with that airtight logic." He deadpanned.

"Give me a break! You hardly ever talk about yourself, let alone your family. Sometimes it's hard to remember you didn't just burst out of a sulphur mine."

"I really sold you the demon shtick flawlessly, didn't I? Hey, and get this - you won't believe your ears. I had…" He leant towards Wilson cospiratorily, lowering his voice and shielding his mouth with a hand. Wilson felt automatically compelled to draw closer as well. "...A _father._ "

"...Ha. Ha ha. Hilarious."

"And a _mother_ too! Astounding, I know. Don't let the claws and the magic and the devilishly good looks deceive you, I'm 100 percent human, plus another 15 or 20 stemmed from the murkiest depths of darkness itself-"

"Will you stop that?" Wilson giggled despite himself, punching Maxwell on the shoulder. The old man let out a completely unwarranted yelp and leaned away from him, nursing his injured arm with an affronted scowl. Wilson was tempted to call him out on his dramatic reaction, before he remembered that that happened to be the spot where he had administered the injection.

"...Oh, sorry. Is it still sore? It's been a few days, it should-"

"It's fine, it's fine." Maxwell ineffectively tried to wave Wilson's hands away as he prodded the area. "It's barely noticeable by now."

As far as Wilson could tell, there weren't any perceptible swollen or hardened lumps beneath the clothing. "Are you sure? I can have a look at it."

"You don't get to act all compassionate and thoughtful after deliberately poisoning me. Hands off." Maxwell retorted without any real bite, and Wilson raised his hands in surrender. After a beat, Maxwell looked away. "Besides, you have no reason to worry about it. I think there may be some merit to that formula of yours."

"Really?" Wilson instantly perked up. "Have you been feeling better?"

"Something of the sort, yes."

"As if you had never died in the first place?"

"Possibly."

"Yes! I knew it!" Wilson grinned, pumping his fist in triumph. He didn't let Maxwell's half-hearted answers mislead him: if he had felt like spontaneously bringing it up, the improvement must have been undeniable. "Now we only need to wait a little more to make sure it won't have any odd side effects in the long term..."

"Glad to see you're still expecting me to kick the bucket at any moment. How long will I supposedly be in danger for?"

"Now, I wouldn't say you're in 'danger'… but I'd wait at least a full month before using the medicine on others."

"Oh, bloody hell." Maxwell rubbed a hand on his face. Wilson chuckled and patted his back encouragingly.

A comfortable silence stretched between them as Wilson nursed his drink and Maxwell smoked quietly. They watched absently the small but lively crowd from afar, lost in their own thoughts. On moments like those, when Maxwell was in a decent mood, Wilson was honestly glad they had met after the throne. If one managed to grow a liking or at least a tolerance for Maxwell's cutting humour and his peculiar ways, having him around could be positively invigorating. It could be _fun_. For all his gratuitous complaining and gloom, he wasn't one to just sit and let the world kick him the teeth. By hook or by crook, he'd pull himself and anyone he needed together and he'd come through, with a sharp sword and an even sharper grin. On moments like those, when they were virtually alone and their past misgivings didn't weigh on their minds and their words, Wilson could even take a honest look at himself and contemplate his own feelings without worry. On moments like those, it wasn't difficult to see all the disquieting thoughts and suspects about the throne's influence as the overgrown paranoia they actually were, and dismiss them with ease. And when the little tidbits of Maxwell's past, the unguarded laughs and genuine concern, and even his distinctly British interjections reminded Wilson of how exquisitely human that self-proclaimed fiend actually was, accepting the undeniable affection he felt for the man was as natural as breathing.

"What did they do?"

"Mh?" Maxwell came down from his own reverie with a surprised puff of smoke. "What? Who?"

"Your parents."

Maxwell let out a deep, long-suffering sigh. "You have this unfortunate, ingrained habit of mistaking thinly-veiled insults for viable topics of conversation. I didn't mention my parents because I feel like sharing my life story, I did it to highlight the fact that you're as dumb as a rock."

"Oh, I don't do it by mistake, I assure you. It's a deliberate choice." Wilson answered genially. "It's also basically the only way I can ever talk with you for more than thirty seconds."

"Lucky me."

"What about your brother? Who did he sold you to?"

Maxwell flashed him his widest, most disturbing grin. "The Devil, maybe."

"...All right, I guess I walked into that one." Wilson rolled his eyes, still smiling as well. A couple of high-pitched cries made them both turn towards the crowd. Wilson couldn't quite see what was happening back there, but if he had to hazard a guess, Webber was probably testing his fighting skills against Wigfrid, this time. "...Have you thought about what I told you? About trusting the others a bit more?"

"Not really, no."

"But you must see it's for the best. Hell, just tonight you had proof of how little it would take you to make a great impression on them. I'm not going to say that now all is forgiven and forgotten just because you put up a fancy magic show, but you can bet everyone will be more friendly with you tomorrow. That's a start, and it took you no effort at all."

"That's an awfully simplistic way of conceiving human interactions, and you're well aware of it. It's certainly easy to see everyone in a good light now, with full bellies, warm clothes, good health and relative safety. But when food starts to grow scarce and danger approaches, _that_ 's when people show their true colors."

"And your solution is to treat them as if they had already betrayed you, without even giving them a chance? Especially when you're the one who betrayed them? What sort of backwards logic is that?"

"A more cautious one than 'let's just hope for the best', surely. Besides, this whole situation is beyond worrying in and of itself."

"What do you mean?"

Maxwell's eyes narrowed, and his tone lowered. "...Do you really see nothing strange in this?"

"In what? What are you talking about?"

"This." Maxwell made a vague, all-encompassing gesture, including the camp, the survivors, the darkness, everything and nothing. "All this. This… this is all wrong."

Wilson blinked. He had no idea what Maxwell was referring to, but he sensed it must be something more important than his usual overly dramatic pessimism, so he waited for him to continue.

"Us. All of us. Meeting each other, surviving together, faring so well that we can afford to hold _birthday parties_ , for heaven's sake. Look at all the statues and the amulets and the piles of food! By now, death has become a mild inconvenience for us, rather than an actual threat. This is a far cry from the hellish experience you've had in the Constant when you first arrived, isn't it?"

"I suppose it is." Wilson agreed, dimly seeing where Maxwell was heading. Maxwell nervously shook some ash off his cigar.

"There's a reason why you never stumbled into another living soul during all your travels, and that's because I made it so. I kept you all accurately separated, I organized the connections between each world you crossed so that none of you would ever meet. Because surviving in pairs or larger groups is easier, both practically and psychologically. And this place was not crafted to make life easier. It's an instrument of torture, devised to induce exactly as much pain as humans are capable of experiencing."

Wilson didn't speak. Maxwell crossed his arms, sulking at the noisy crowd. "And suddenly, within the span of few months, so many of us are reunited in a single place. Not by sheer chance, that's for sure. Suddenly we're allowed all this… comfort, company, cheer. It makes no sense."

"Well, maybe the new Queen is on our side, inasmuch as she can be." Wilson ventured to say. "You said you knew her, and she freed me from the throne. Maybe she genuinely wants to help us."

"No, that's not it." Maxwell shook his head grimly. "Even if she harboured any sympathy for any of us, which is doubtful, she'd be in no position to favour us so blatantly. They wouldn't allow it. Nothing happens here without Their permission, and They only care about Their own entertainment, which invariably involves slaughter and suffering."

"So you're saying that this some sort of trick?" Wilson frowned. "What are you concerned about, exactly? That there may be… I don't know, a spy in our midst?"

"That is certainly a possibility."

"Mh… that doesn't sound right to me. It's needlessly contrived and time-consuming as a way to torture us."

"It certainly isn't something I'd have resorted to… but if I was replaced, I guess They must have been growing bored of my methods to begin with."

"I thought you got replaced because I bested you in a battle of endurance, stubbornness and wits."

"Yeah, keep telling yourself that, if it helps you sleep at night." Maxwell deadpanned. "Anyway, there are much simpler ways our current arrangement can damage us."

"How so?"

"What Wendy said earlier is true." Maxwell shrugged. "Wounds of the soul are much more devastating than those of the flesh. When this idyllic period of peace will inevitably end and corpses will start to pile up, loneliness will be a heavier burden than ever, and loss will only add to its weight. That kind of pain is definitely something I can see Them enjoying."

"So you think this is only temporary." Wilson murmured, considering Maxwell's words carefully. "That it was given to us only to be taken away."

"That much is obvious. Still, I don't think that's quite all there is to it. It's too much trouble for too little reward. They're planning something, and I have no idea what it is. I don't like it." Maxwell rubbed his eyes slowly. "I don't like it one bit."

So much for his day without worries, Wilson thought. He had never really stopped to question which conjunctures might have caused the survivors' paths to cross, but, as Maxwell put them, they did look suspicious. The thought that he may, possibly soon, be out there on his own all over again, completely alone with his struggles and his hallucinations against a whole, murderous world, was indeed depressing. Yet, for some reason, it was even more depressing to see Maxwell similarly affected by that perspective. Wilson silently considered the other man, all traces of his earlier mirth and lightheartedness gone; suddenly he looked very old and very tired, barely any more alive than the listless shell of a man he had found caged on the throne. Something within Wilson found that simply intolerable. He reached out and gently squeezed Maxwell's shoulder.

"...Hey, look. There isn't really any point in catastrophizing. We all know this place is terrible and evil, but that doesn't mean nothing good can ever come out of it. Look at yourself, you're free now. That's an improvement over being bound to the throne, isn't it?"

"Tough call." Maxwell replied laconically.

"That's an improvement." Wilson declared. "I'm faring better than ever too! I've learned a lot, I'm free and in great shape, and I have at least one person I can unhesitatingly rely on, and that's more-"

"Who?" Maxwell asked, with ridiculously genuine curiosity. Wilson gave him a look. "...Oh, you mean me."

"No, I meant Chester. Who else, you thick-headed prick!?"

"Sorry, it was the 'unhesitatingly' that threw me off. Please continue."

"And!" Wilson added, and abruptly stood up and walked away. He marched to the table and filled two plates with as much food of as many different varieties as they could hold, and brought them back to their comfortably private corner. He proceeded to refill their bowls to the brim with berry juice as well, and he added those to the heap before sitting down again, while Maxwell kept observing him with a mix of confusion and amusement. "We are currently in the perfect position to build our strength for whatever obstacle They might be planning to throw in our way. So eat up, stay safe and gather comrades."

"My God, this has to be the most predictable and shallow pep talk I've ever heard."

"Trust me, you just have to tackle the most immediate problems one at a time and don't let remote fears distract you. Small steps. That's how I made it all the way to your den."

"Every time you rub that one victory in my face, you come up with a different reason for it. Last time it was by exercising caution and always having a backup plan, which is just about the opposite of what you just said."

"That too. And also by being generally better, smarter and stronger than you. I'm just an extraordinary guy all round, when you think about it." Maxwell snorted. Wilson smiled and held out his bowl of juice. "To peace and prosperity, however long they'll last?"

Maxwell shook his head, but he was smiling. He lifted his own bowl and clinked against Wilson's. "To short-sighted optimism."

"Good enough."

They drank their juice and enjoyed some more of Willow's cuisine. It was true, Wilson didn't have much valuable insight or advice to offer about Maxwell's worries, but small steps did it, for real. And as of now, managing to turn Maxwell's frown into a crooked smile felt like a worthy milestone.

"Maxwell!" Webber yelled. "Willow wants you to teach her how to spit fire!"

Wilson sighed. Maxwell, at least, had the decency to look alarmed.


End file.
